


Like Pulling Teeth, Like Clipping Wings

by PrettyOkayGatsby



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, MCR - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Annngst, Anorexia, Binge Eating Disorder, Bulimia, M/M, Trigger Warnings, Unrequited Love, but not really, poor Patrick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyOkayGatsby/pseuds/PrettyOkayGatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But you will, won't you? You're going to break right in half, because when push comes to shove, Fatty Patty, you've never been good at keeping it together."</p><p>Fame gets to Patrick in the worst kind of way and he reverts to some old bad habits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pudding, 45

There really wasn't a beginning, or a cause for it, Patrick has just always been "that kid".

Nice enough, but quiet, the weird kid who listened to weird music, the one picked last for teams, the one left over when people partner up, the one who sat alone in the back of the bus. It was hard, yeah, but whatever. He made it through high school and no one's dead. He thinks he deserves some vices.

Except that Patrick's vices are less "laugh at them on Facebook" and more "starve himself half to death"

Once more, no apparent cause. Patrick has just never had a healthy relationship with food. He spent a good chunk of his life overweight and the other dieting into the doube-digit weight groups. It really isn't so much of an issue now that he's out of school and far away from anyone who ever teased him.

_"Fatty, fatty two-by-four!"_

_"Fatty Patty!"_

_"Hey, Patrick, what's up, fat ass?"_

He still has his moments  _ ~~who wouldn't looking like a complete~~  _but it's better. He's better. It's been  ~~ _too long, too long, need to get it out_  ~~ months since he's had an episode. He has his friends, his music and he's going to be fine. They're doing fine.

They're finally _there,_ at the top, where they all know they deserve to be and the venue is packed. He sings until his head is light and he's swaying on his feet and he's not sure but he thinks he might pass out. Pete is running up and down his peripheral vision smiling like a maniac and he couldn't help but fall in love with him, if just a little bit. 

They're finally here and it's the best feeling in the world. 

Patrick is sweating under the harsh lights and panting hard between verses. He's knows he's probably utterly disgusting but that doesn't discourage Pete _it never has_ as he leaned against Patrick, pressed what could be a kiss right where neck meets shoulder. After a moment, Patrick bumped him softly with his thigh and he's off, one fist in the air. "Let me hear you!" Pete screamed and the crowd goes wild. They finish the set with Pete about two seconds from plunging into the crowd. Patrick grabbed him by the collar and yanks him back. "Don't," is all he said, before dragging him away, smiling apologetically at the people in the front row.

"Eww," someone said "I don't get it. Yeah he can sing but he's so _gross!"_

Patrick's not sure if anyone else heard it, not quite sure how he heard it out of all the voices in the arena but he did and now he feels like the wind had just been knocked out of him. Patrick stumbed off stage, knees week as they they gathered around for post concert congratulations. "You were great!" Joe said, clapping him on the back. Patrick nodded, feeling sick.

Feeling  _gross._

"Dude, you okay?" Pete asked worriedly.

He nodded. "Yeah, just tired."

"Alright, hey! Hey! We're heading out! Come on, let's get you back to the hotel. You look like shit, man."

Pete and Andy walk him to his room and he denies their invitation to spend the night with one of them with a smile. He just wants to be alone right now and tells them so.  Andy disappears into the room down the hall while Pete lingers, looking concerned. Feeling too tired to soothe him, Patrick shuts the door and collapses onto his bed, wriggling out of his clothes until his bare chest and legs are pressed against the scratchy hotel comforter.

Fuck, fucking  _fuck._

Was he really going to lose it over some girl? Some faceless nobody? He couldn't just-

_But you will, won't you? You're going to break right in half, because when push comes to shove, Fatty Patty, you've never been good at keeping it together._

 Patrick closed his eyes and blew air hard out of his nose. His throat hurt. He knew he had some spray for it in the bathroom but he was so tired. Patrick groaned and forced himself to sit up, almost rolling onto the floor. "Shit!" he rasped, standing. Patrick padded across the floor and into the cool bathroom, shivering as he rummaged through his toiletries bag, breaking out into goosebumps.

Patrick tried not to make eye contact with himself as he moved in front of the full length mirror and only paid attention to the pale, rounded valley of his chest and the swell of his stomach, how his thighs touched and scraped together when he moved. He twisted from the hip and stretched, arms over his head, belly bulging out over his underwear. Patrick sucked in his gut until he could see his ribs, running his fingers over the familiar bones.

_That's better._

He wondered how long it would take to get himself back down to that size. It would be a good many pounds but he had done it in high school. 

_fATTY PATTY, FATTY PATTY PUDDING PIE!_

He could do it. No breakfast here, a lighter lunch there, it would be easy. Losing weight never hurt anybody

Patrick fished out his bottle of throat medicine and swallowed it, gagging at the strong artificial cherry taste. He turned off the lights and curled under the sheets, stomach knocking against his knees with every breath he took.

* * *

Everyone was up and ready by dawn. Patrick didn't really want to say awake seeing as how all but a few security personnel looked ready to drop dead. It would have been fine if they had left a few hours later but Pete wanted a chance to explore the city for a bit before the show started and no one really had the heart to say no to him. They picked up Denny's for breakfast and Patrick watched as his friends ate, picking at his own plate half heartedly. Joe reached over and snatched his bacon, frowning when it did not garner a reaction. "You okay, Patrick?"

"You should eat something," Pete said from a few rows up, shoving a rolled up pancake into his mouth before taking a shot of syrup. "We don't want you to waste away." They laughed and Patrick flushed, staring at his lap. Were they making fun of his weight? He sank deeper into his seat, hoping that somehow by the grace of God he would just disappear into the upholstery.

He closed his eyes eone took his platter of his lap and tossed a blanket over his head. He flipped them off and pretended to fall asleep. He was pretty sure they didn't fall for it, seeing as how Pete held onto a firm belief that Patrick breathed like a baby while he slept but they didn't bother him and he appreciated them pretending.

By the time they arrived, his stomach was growling and cramping low in his abdomen. He hadn't eaten anything but a light breakfast yesterday from all the excitement. "Alright!" Pete called, hands on his hips. "Lunch first, then exploring."

Lunch?

He was twitching with paranoia as they made their way into a small diner or maybe that was the headache  slowly building at the base of his skull. The waitress, who seemed to recognize them and turned an interesting shade of red,  took their request without blinking and sat them in the farthest to the back booth. Patrick rested his head against the table and tried not to sigh as they discussed specials.

"What do you want Patrick?" Pete asked.

He wanted pizza.

"Nothing."

With extra pepperoni and grease.

"Are you sure?"

With a cold Dr. Pepper and a bendy straw because he was feeling sick and five years old today.

"Yeah."

"Are you okay, Patrick? You're acting really weird." Andy questioned.

"I'm fine. I'm just tired."

"You were sleeping the entire ride over here. Are you sick?"

"Yeah, man, if you're sick we can-" Joe began.

"No!" He hated cancelling concerts more than anything. The fans had done so much for him and he was not going to disappoint them because he couldn't handle his goddamn weight. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. I just need to rest."

They all looked taken aback; Patrick rarely raised his voice in anything but jest.

"Uh...okay." They ate in silence, shooting concerned looks at each other everytime they thought Patrick wasn't looking. Privately, he wondered how long he could keep this up; it had only been a day and a half of fasting and he was already exhausted, angry and ready to give up. 

_"Yeah he can sing but he's so gross!"_

He knew looking good was important in this business, how everytime he turned on the TV he was reminded that more than anything else, sex sells. He thought about how many chances he had blown for his friends simply because he was so fucking _gross._

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," he announced, waiting for Andy to slide out and blushing a deep red all the way to his shoulders when his belly scraped the table.

It was empty, thank God for small miracles, but he still locked his stall door. Patrick took a few deep breaths, feeling close to a panic attack. He sank to his knees and stared at his clenched hands. He remembered this pose, had spent most of his sophomore and junior year on his knees with his fingers down his throat. He had been doing so well, did he really want to lose himself again.

No.

This time would be different.

He could control this.

Almost against his will, before he could convince himself to think better of it, Patrick sank his fingers down his throat in a quick, steady motion. He heaved, tasting bile and day old oranges, crying from the sting in his throat. 

~~_It hurt so much, Jesus, help me._ ~~

_You're fine. You're fine. You're fine. You're doing so good._

Patrick shakily got to his feet, vomit dripping down his shirt. He peeled it off and tossed it into the wastebasket, zipping his jacket up to the neck. Panting, he exited the stall. Patrick washed out his mouth with soap and spat, running his tongue over his teeth. Patrick coughed and winced; he had scraped something on the way down.  _Shit,_ he thought,  _that was going to hurt tomorrow._

He walked as calmly as he could back to the booth, feeling dizzy and triumphant. He slid back into his seat and raised an eyebrow at his friends' stares. "What?" he rasped and then coughed again. 

"You look like shit, man," Pete said around a mouthful of sandwich.

"You get in a fight or something?" Joe asked, looking concerned.

"No. I'm fine, guys, really."

"That's like the third time you've said you're fine," Pete said quietly. "And we still don't believe you. Give it up, Stump."

"I think I'm getting sick, that's all," he allowed. "I didn't want to worry you guys." They relaxed somewhat.

"Shit, that's it?" Joe said. He leaned back and rolled his eyes. "Damn, man, you could have just told us. You have no idea how close Pete was getting to a heart attack!"

"Shut up, Trohman! Like you weren't worried, too!" Pete shot back, jabbing him in the side with his elbow. "Ass."

"Look, we ordered you a burger, we'll take it home, you can rest at the hotel and if you're still feeling shitty in a day or two we won't cancel but you're gonna need to see a doctor, got it, Patrick?" Andy said over their squabbling.

"Got it, mother hen," Patrick said, grinning at the concern. 

"Not mother henning, just wanna make sure you're safe and sound," Pete mumbled from where he was shoved into Joe's armpit. "Dude when was the last time you took a bath?"

"I swear if you guys get us kicked out of here you're walking to the venue," Andy said.

Patrick laughed and grabbed his drink, pulling it out of danger's path as Pete slammed his arm onto the table. "Tap out, tap out!" The bassist shouted. 

"Shit, Patrick, what the everloving fuck did you do to your hand? Did you punch a cat or something?"

"What?" Pete asked, jerking out of Joe's chokehold, his voice rising to a pitch Patrick didn't think possible for fully grown men. Patrick looked down and flexed his hand, wincing. He had forgotten how sharp molars were.

Andy took his hand and held it up to the light. "Jesus Christ, man, you're bleeding pretty bad."

"I did not get into a fight!" Patrick exclaimed, snatching his hand back and shoving both of them deep into his pockets.

"Well then where did these come from?" Pete looked at Andy, Andy looked at Patrick and Joe stared at Pete.

_Way to go, Patty, less than twenty four hours and you're already fucking everything up._

_~~shutupshutupSHUTUP.~~ i can fix this.  
_

_Well, do it then._

"I scratched myself punching a wall," he said finally.

"Why were you punching a wall?" Pete asked, looking unconvinced. "Patrick, if-"

"So what, you're the only one allowed to have big rockstar meltdowns?" Patrick responded, falling into an easy rhythm. Banter, he could do banter.

"Well, no, but-"

"But nothing."

"But-"

" _But nothing," _he said the emphasis nearly visible in his tone. "I was stupid, punched something I shouldn't have and now I'm embarrassed. Happy?"

Pete grinned, shoulders dropping back into a slouch as he unwound. "Yeah. Pretty happy."

_Liar, liar, what a bad little man-_

Patrick made sure he smiled back at the waitress as the burger and the check came.

_Was it her?_

Pete paid the bill as recompense for waking them up at five in the morning. Digging into his wallet, Patrick tossed in about fifteen dollars for a tip.

"That's like an sixty percent mark-up," Joe commented. Patrick shrugged and pushed his hat farther down his head.

"Who knows?" he asked, smiling hard and shrugging. "Maybe she needs it to fund her band."

* * *

"How long is it going to be before we meet up with the others?"Andy asked around a mouthful of jello. Pete propped his feet on the opposite seat and rolled his shoulders back. "Cobra's meeting us at the venue, I'm not too sure about MCR."

Patrick plugged his headphones into his iPod and tried to make himself comfortable, skipping around until he found something acceptable. He had a few GarageBand files he wanted to work on but he'd deal with that later; he thinks he's earned a short rest.

"Here." Patrick looked up and fumbled for whatever Andy threw at him. Chocolate pudding and a spoon. "Eat it," Andy said simply. "It's got milk, right? Milk won't upset your stomach."

 _No sin may pass my lips,_ he thought, and added it to the list of shitty lyrics he kept in his mind. _I am stronger than this._

"Thanks." Under careful watch, he peeled away the top and licked it, nearly moaning at the taste. His stomach grumbled angrily.

 _Strong,_ his better half reminded him,  _you have to be strong._

_Who gives a shit? Food._

_You don't need it._

_Starving yourself isn't healthy._

_Neither is being a whale._

He put it to the side. "I still feel a bit queasy," he lied.

Andy frowned. "It'll be there when you need it," he said and was that a warning in his voice?

_I'll never need it._

_Good boy._

_"_ Patrick..."

Patrick grabbed his laptop from under the seat and turned it on, desperate to end the conversation. "Yeah?"

"I-Never mind."

"Alright."

 He opened Microsoft Word and bit his lip, tapping his fingers along the keys before typing-

_Day One._

Patrick looked at the pudding cup and to the clean page in front of him.

_45 calories._

He fed himself a spoonful and gagged at the sticky sweetness. He swalllowed hard and set it off to the side where he wouldn't be tempted.

_Just a few more days of this._

_45 calories..._

_He could do this._

_Good boy._


	2. Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich, 400

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys meet up with Cobra Starship, four days before the big concert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, my style is make everyone think things are going to be alright and when they're good and distracted, rip any hope for a happy ending away from them.

Sometimes, Patrick feels overwhelmed. He knows he's ungrateful and shouldn't be thinking this way but he does and he hates himself for it. He'll be writing a song or rehearsing and it's good, it's great, he wouldn't change it for the world but sometimes there's this moment where the world is moving too fast and he just wants to jump off. He sees people ine up for days to see him perform and thinks, he should be in that line. He should be waiting in line to see his favorite bands, he should be able to just relax in a Starbucks and talk to someone about college exams and hang out in libraries and get drunk without anyone he doesn't know taking pictures of him.

He's only 21 and feels the weight of the world press down on his shoulders. He feels young and scared and alone because while Andy or Joe or Pete can talk about their wild high school days, Patrick can't. He was only 15 when he was shoved into a van with three other boys and told to make a rockstar of himself. He never had the chance to be crazy or go to parties like his friends did and he now understands why his mom had been so reluctant to let him go.

Patrick was just some idiot kid who got lucky. He didn't have what it took to be famous and was only waiting for the rest of the world to figure it out too.

 

_Day Two._

_23 calories; half an apple, six M &Ms. _

_Day Three._

_0 calories. Doing well. Jeans getting looser. Drank 8 bottles of water._

_Day Four._

_1480 calories, give or take. Two tuna subs, three cookies (oatmeal), four cans of Sprite, vanilla pudding cup. Vomited five minutes later. Feel heavy. Plan to cut calories down to ten a day for the next three days to make up for it._

_Day Five._

_10 calories, like I promised. But still weight loss seems to have stopped. Jeans are tight around hips, shirts around stomach and arms. Pete is acting weird too. Will try for zero tomorrow._

_Day Six._

_400 calories. One peanut butter and banana sandwich. 3 bottles of water. I had to eat with the others and was unable to purge. We are meeting up with Cobra later then going out to eat dinner. If I have to eat anymore, everything's going to be ruined._

Patrick saved his entry and then closed Word, not wanting to look at the numbers any longer. He fell back against the seat with a thump and licked his dry lips. 

_23+1480+10+400_

He breathed out hard, running one hand over his stomach. It ached against his touch and Patrick frowned. He was still felt bloated from lunch, and his stomach fought against the sudden influx of sugar. Patrick curled his knees into his chest and gagged, tasting the peanut butter still stuck to the roof of his mouth. He felt far worse than when he started his purge, his skin felt stained with glue and clay. He had been doing so well and he had gone and fucked it up.

~~_Just like you fuck up everything._ ~~

"What are you always writing?" Pete asked, shoving himself into Patrick's personal bubble. His bony knees dug into the soft flesh of the singer's thigh and Patrick flushed, drawing closer into himself. Unperturbed, Pete nuzzled his head under Patrick's arm and into his lap. 

"Nothing," he said. "Why?"

Pete rested his chin on Patrick's hip, nose searching for bare skin as he crooned. He grinned up at Patrick and hugged him around the middle. "Whenever I see you," Pete murmured, "you're always on your computer, typing. Is it a book? Can I read it?"

"It's not a book. Just...it's private. Sorry." 

Pete moved closer, sniffing against the flash of tummy he dug up before Patrick yanked down his shirt. Pete went stiff and still, staring into Patrick's side like it had betrayed him. "S'okay," he mumbled. "I just, it's-you'd tell me if you weren't okay, right?"

Patrick froze, breath caught painfully in his chest. "Pete, I'm fine. Really," he choked out. "Don't waste your worry on me."

"Nothing on you is ever a waste," he said, and began to kiss down his leg before sitting up. He flicked the brim of Patrick's hat and smirked. Patrick hummed happily as Pete nibbled his temple, smiling as he continued, "I worry okay? Just let me worry, Trick."

 "You're worrying for nothing!" Patrick said and his voice comes out harsher than he wanted.

Pete pulled back, eyes flashing. "Hey, man, don't-"

"Everybody shut up and look what I found rooting around through our garbage!" Joe sang, dragging a familiar face through the door. Pete is up and moving in seconds, hopping over the coffee table. He captured Gabe in a tight hug, pulling him down for a noogie. "Think we can keep him?" 

"What's up?" Pete asked, clasping him on the back as they pulled away. "How've you been?"

Gabe grinned, shrugging. "Same as usual; sex, drugs, Rock'n'Roll."

"I'm so proud," he mocked.

Patrick stood, knees popping, and hugged him, too. He grinned up at his friend (Gabe had a good foot on him) and nearly screamed when the large hands wrapped around his waist hefted him off the foor.

"Put me down!" he demanded, "you're going to drop me!" Patrick sighed in relief as he was placed back down on the ground. Gabe made a point to harass him about his height every time they spoke and he was pretty used to being held like a ragdoll. They both laughed and Gabe rested his hand on Patrick's hat, scratching lightly at it like he was petting a cat. "How've you been, Stump?"

He smiled into Gabe's chest. "Rock'n'Roll, Rock'n'Roll and Rock'n'Roll."

"Yeah, man, sweet," he said and sounded so goddamn pleased, "if anyone's gonna save Rock'n'Roll, it's Patrick fucking Stump."

Patrick blushed and smiled wide, the words warming him. He beamed up at Gabe who still hadn't let him go. "I wouldn't go nearly that far," he said. "But thanks, I appreciate."

"Yeah, yeah, Patrick's an adorable motherfucker, we get that. Love fest over, let's go fucking eat," Joe said, pushing them towards the door.

It isn't until they're at the restaurant that Patrick begins to freak out. He had gotten caught up in the reunion (he had missed Gabe, missed everyone,) and it hadn't clicked that he was going to have to eat in front of everybody until they sat down.

Almost immediately, Patrick began to feel sick, the smell of food thick and far too tempting.They were the last ones to arrive with everyone seated and attacking the appetizers. Andy and Vicky were almost falling over themselves as Alex and Nate shoved handfuls of fries into their mouths. "Ryland's in the bathroom," Alex stopped to say. "French fries?"

Patrick shook his head as Pete attempted to wrestle away a basket from Nate. "You're all idiots and I don't know any of you."

Gabe snickered as he hit any hands who wandered too close to his basket with a fork, grinning like a cheshire cat as his bandmates hissed their displeasure. "Cobra rule number two, amigos," he said, "act shit, get hit."

"Dare I ask what's rule one?" Patrick asked, laughing. Gabe flicked a french fry at him.

"Rule one, querido, is simple, ask before you pull any levers."

"Gabe that doesn't make any sense."

"Doesn't have to, baby, the Cobra has spoken and I am not one to question."

"I still call betrayal!" Nate cried out indignantly. "You betraying douche!"

"What can I say?" Gabe asked, finish off the last of the appetizers. "I was born this way."

"Don't quote Gaga at me, you dick!"

"Want anything?" Pete asked, leaning in to avoid a flying straw. "I'll risk it for you."

"I'm fine," Patrick said, shifting uncomfortably under the attention. "I'm not hungry at all. Let them have it."

"Not hungry? Still?"

"Who's not hungry?" Andy piped up.

"Patrick."

"Patrick's not hungry?" Joe asked from the other end of the table.

_Oh God, everyone's looking at me. Shit._

He wondered if he'd be able to run fast enough to make a successful getaway.

 _Except you couldn't,_  Better-Half sang, _run, that is, because-_

"So he's not hungry," Ryland said, taking a seat between Patrick and the others, "leave the man alone, Jesus, what is this CSI?"

"If it was, Ry, you'd be the rapist," Vicky snorted. "What took you so long?"

"Your sister. And if I'm the rapist, you're the creepy janitor everybody thinks is the rapist," he retorted.

"Smooth comeback, Captain Dickbite, real smooth," Gabe said. "How long did it take you to come up with it?"

Patrick laughed, relieved the conversation was moving along. The food came and everyone was quiet, tearing into their respective meals. Gabe had a small group of followers watching him attempt the challenge burger (Vegetarian version containing an entire head of lettuce) but they hadn't been recognized yet, which was always nice. Patrick wouldn't give up his life for the world but being normal for an hour or two? Just being able to sit with your friends and laugh?

Was really, really nice.

_You ungrateful asshole. People would kill to be in your position. You don't deserve anything you have._

He laughed into his hand as the buzzer sounded. Gabe shouted in frustration, cheeks bulging with bread and lettuce and tomato. "Shit!" he said, which sounded a bit more like, "Ffit!"

Pete snapped a picture and laughed. "Gonna keep this to remember our first date by, Gabe-baby" he simpered. 

Gabe flipped him off. "Save it as your wallpaper. It is my gift to you."

"Aw, thanks, baby, but Rickster here might get jealous."

"He's Pete's wallpaper for everything," Joe said.

"And password," Andy added in.

"How adorable," Alex said, "just get married already, you too, yeah?"

 _Like anyone would want to marry a fuckup like you._   


Pete slid out of his chair and onto one knee, grinning. "Patrick," he began, "light of my life, apple of my eye, future mother of my children, will you do me the honor of marrying me?"

_Yes, yes, yes._

"Oh, Pete, if only I could," he said dryly, "but I am in a happy relationship with Antonio."

"Who the in the hell is that?"

Ryland leaned over, one arm between Patrick's thighs, the other hitting Pete over the head. "Back off my man!" he said in a faux manly voice. "Bitch!"

Patrick wrapped both arms around him and squeezed. "My hero!" he cooed, batting his eyelashes.  _Warm, warm, warm, he was so cold._

Ryland sat up straight, his hand squeezing Patrick's side. He paused, face scrunching briefly before smoothing back into a pleasant smile.

Pete fumed as Andy hauled him back into his chair by the hood. 

"You will be mine, Von Stump!"

_All you have to do is ask._

"Yeah, Pete, whatever you want," Patrick said and took a sip of his water.

_400._

Patrick smiled.


	3. 0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddamn this is late. Sorry guys, back to school has really been kicking my ass. I would also like to put out there while I had a vague idea where this was going relationship wise earlier, I suddenly have to start resisting the urge to just flip pairings. Patrick/Gabe, Patrick/Gerard, Patrick/Pete, so many possibilities! Let me know what you think and I'll take it into consideration!

_What happens at Warped, stays at Warped,_ Patrick thought. Gabe kissed down his neck, fingers trailing down his stomach to the button of his jeans. “Missed you,” he murmured against Patrick’s jugular.

Patrick smiled and raked his fingers through the gel-caked hair. “I missed you too,” he said. Gabe undid his zipper and Patrick fumbled for the lamp switch.

“No, come on, I want to see you, all of you,” Gabe demanded, looking up at him angrily. Rolling his eyes, Patrick turned off the only source of light in the small room, glad that Andy had installed curtains.

Patrick felt rather than saw Gabe’s look of disapproval. “We’re already having sex, Saporta, there’s no need to flatter me.”

Gabe bit down where Pete had placed a kiss so many days ago and lapped at it. Patrick closed his eyes and sighed, feeling the last remnants of the touch fade away. “You’re a goddamn idiot, Stump,” Gabe said and rolled onto his back. Patrick squirmed as he was shifted onto Gabe’s sharp hips, gasping when the other man thrust upwards.

“Gabe!” he gasped as he was dragged down by the hair for a kiss. “I’m going to kill you.”

Gabe kissed Patrick’s cheek and bit down softly. “Shut the fuck up and take off your clothes.”

He sat up as Gabe and tugged at his jeans, balancing on his knees to help them slide off.

“Shirt now, lunchbox.”

Patrick froze and glared down at him. “One, don’t call me that-” _don’t ever call him these. they are mine-_ “two, shirt stays on. We don’t have long until someone comes looking for us.”

“Ugh, fuck, whatever, we’ll argue later. Now get back down here.”

Patrick smiled as he was pulled back down for another kiss, opening his mouth to allow Gabe’s tongue inside. Gabe slid a hand down Patrick’s back and played at the elastic band of his boxers, pulling at it before letting it snap back into place.

Patrick gasped and Gabe swallowed the noise hungrily, steadily pushing up his hips.

There was no rhythm to this, just the two of them writhing together on the couch. Patrick pulled away from the kiss and buried his face in the sofa, smelling weed and stale Coke as Gabe palmed his ass. “Fuck,” Patrick hissed as he neared the edge. Fire smoldered low in his belly as Gabe entwined their legs.

“God, Patrick, fucking oh my God, I-Patri-!”

“ _What the fuck_?”

Patrick screeched as he was pushed off the couch and onto the floor, scrambling for something to hide behind.

Pete looked positively murderous as he stalked across the room, nearly shaking with rage. Patrick shrunk into himself as Pete, all 5’6 of him, hauled Gabe to his feet by the back of his neck and frog-marched him out of the bus, slamming the door shut and locking it.

Patrick winced as the banging began, hiding his face in his hands. “Oh God,” he murmured and then started to cry. Pete sat down beside him, tossed a blanket over them both.

“Okay,” he breathed, “I may have overreacted.”

Patrick giggled helplessly and Pete began to laugh, nearly toppling them both over as he collapsed onto Patrick.

“So, you and Gabe, huh?” he asked when they had both calmed down.

 “Mhm.”

“Do you love him?”

No, was his first thought. No, of course not, don’t be stupid. You and me, Peter Pan, like we promised. But as he thought about it more, Patrick wondered, did he?

_I want to see you, all of you._

Gabe was everything Patrick thought he could never have; smart, handsome, funny and maybe Patrick did love him, if just a little bit.

_all of you._

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally, staring at the floor. “He’s good-looking and seems to think I’m worth something so-”

“Patrick, what the fuck? Do you honestly believe that that’s all you need? That he’s doing you a favor?” Pete shook him hard, angry brown eyes spinning in and out of view. “Patrick, no, fuck no. You’re perfect and if he has told you any different you need to let me know so I can go beat some reason into his fucker.”

For once, Patrick leaned onto Pete, let his shoulders slump and sighed. “No, Pete, you can’t beat the shit out of Gabe. He didn’t do anything, okay? I didn’t mean it. I’m just not in a very good place right now.”

“Why didn’t you come to me?” Pete asked, resting his chin on the top of Patrick’s head. He sounded hurt. “Trick, you know I’m always here if you need me.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, “I know.”

He was sweaty and smelled like sex but Pete kissed his shoulder, at the little triad of freckles there. “Pete/Patrick night?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Patrick changed out of his shirt and stepped into some new boxers, feeling awkward as Pete stared at his bare chest. “What?” he asked, tugging a stolen hoodie (he’s not sure but he thinks it belongs to Joe) over his head.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight.”

Patrick flushed, crosses his arms over his stomach. It’s one thing with Gabe, who has seen him from the inside out and knows the very worst of him but this is Pete who thinks Patrick is perfect and has no idea how destroyed he is.

Patrick doesn’t want to let him down. “Whatever,” he said and clambered up into the condo with him. They press themselves close together, Patrick teetering dangerously close to the edge as the movie begins to play.

Pete tossed a leg over Patrick’s hip and tugged him closer. “You’re gonna fall off and while that would be really funny, I need my Patrick whole.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “I appreciate that, truly.”

It’s crowded and with the curtains closed it’s hot enough for Patrick to start sweating again. He shifts uncomfortably but Pete seems unaffected.

“I think I’m going to go-“

“If you try to move from this bed, Stump, I will tie you to it, swear to God.”

“Guess not.” He settled back down as Pete laughed and Patrick rolled his eyes, smiling inwardly.

It’s not such a bad thing, being stuck together.

In fact, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

* * *

Pete Wentz is an irritating little shit.

He hasn't left Patrick alone all day and seems determined to make his life as miserable as possible. He glares at anyone who comes too close and Patrick isn’t sure what the fuck he’s said to Joe and Andy but they’re pacing around like guard dogs and if Ray is telling the truth no one has seen Cobra all day.

It’s disconcerting to say the least.

“We’re going to talk about this later,” he said when the Dropkick Murphys nearly sprint out of the craft services tent. “Jesus, Pete, what did you do?”

“Nothing!” Pete said, smiling as he added a sandwich to his already toppling plate. “Are you hungry?”

“What? No. No, Pete, I don’t want any food.”

“Why not? You’re too thin. How about a cup of soup at least?”

“Pete, enough! I don’t want anything to eat.”

His friend stared at him with angry brown eyes. “You know, Stump, you keep saying you don’t want anything to eat. But I don’t think you’ve ever said you’re not hungry.”

Patrick forced down his rising panic and looked away. “Not hungry,” he said. Something bumped against the corner of his mouth.

Pete poked him again with the piece of watermelon, smiling thinly like a mother trying to feed her picky child. “A few bites won’t hurt,” he soothed and then pressed so hard Patrick felt his teeth bite into his lips.

“Mph,” Patrick said and turned his head. “Pete fucking quit it I am so serious-” Patrick gagged as the taste of fruit, spitting it out onto the ground.

“Why won’t you fucking eat?” Pete hissed, slamming his hands on the table.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone, I don’t want anything to eat!” he countered, knowing that anyone within a 20 foot radius could hear them. “I’m not a kid anymore you don’t need to take care of me!”

“I know that, you think I don’t, asshole? Maybe I’m just worried. Maybe I’m freaking out over the fact that I haven’t seen you eat in days, you’re all secretive all of a sudden and now I find out you’ve been fucking _Gabe_? Fuck yeah I’m not going to leave you alone, Patrick, I’m goddamn worried about you!”

Patrick deflated. Pete looked about two seconds from crying from frustration, his lip jut out and quivering. “I don’t need a caretaker, Pete,” he said gently. “I don’t need someone to watch my every move and I don’t need you scaring people away from me.”

“I don’t like Gabe,” Pete muttered.

“You love Gabe.”

“Friend Gabe and Sloppy Make outs With you Gabe are two totally different Gabes,” Pete said pointedly. “I don’t like the second one.”

Patrick smiled at that. “Then don’t like him, that’s fine but-”

“You’re too good for him you know.”

“Pete, please. All I’m asking is that you undo whatever the fuck you did to make everyone treat me like a pariah.”

“It wasn’t anything bad!” Pete defended. “I told them you weren’t feeling very well and they decided to give you some space.”

“Mhmm and Joe and Andy?”

“Don’t like Sloppy Make outs Gabe either.”

“ _Pete.”_

“I’ll go talk to them right now,” Pete looked mournfully at his still full plate and pushed it over to Patrick. “Here, eat it. You’re too skinny anyway. I’ll come find you later, okay? And don’t forget Gerard wants to hang out with you later today.”

“Alright, I won’t.”

“Eat!” Pete called over his shoulder as goodbye.” Patrick gave a sarcastic wave and tossed the food in the trash, feeling a twinge of guilt for letting it all go to waste.

That was too much anyways, not to mention nothing he really liked. It would have upset his stomach slamming down that much sugar and fats at once.

It wouldn’t count as lying if he ate later, right? Maybe something a bit lighter.

The craft services woman looked at him sympathetically. He hadn’t seen her earlier but no doubt she heard everything and he shivered with embarrassment. 

As he stepped out into the sunlight, Patrick debated finding Gerard now or slipping back to the bus for some down time before the show. It was only four; Andy would probably still be there.

Still, Pete had said Gerard was waiting for him. Sighing, Patrick began to head towards the My Chem bus, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

He knocked softly and then stepped back, rocking on his heels. There was some muffled shouting and a crash, then a stream of muffled curse words.

Bob opened the door, looking frazzled, Frank clinging to his shoulders.

“Hi Patrick,” Frank chirped. “You here for Gee?”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s in the back room,” Bob said, stepping aside to let him through. “Iero, get the hell offa me!”

The bus was messy, although no more than Joe’s and Pete’s, and Patrick had to be careful not to step on anything as he picked his way to the back. He knocked again, heard a muffled, “Christ, Stump, just get in here!”

“How’d you know it was me?” he asked. Gerard grinned at him, all teeth.

“You know you’re the only one who knocks here, right?” Patrick shuffled over to the bed and sat down gingerly, afraid to displace the delicate balance of books and CDs and laptop.

“What’s all this for?”

How did he even manage to bring so many books along?

“Nothing really. I just like to read.” Gerard leaned back against the headboard and frowned. “Sorry I called you over for nothing.”

Patrick relaxed and flopped over a small pile of history books. “No problem, I would have been bored without you, thanks for including me in this little “things that make Gerard happy fest” I appreciate it.”

Gerard grinned again, wider. “You can borrow one if you want. They’re all kind of boring but it always impresses the guys to see me reading them.”

Patrick laughed at that, fished out a particularly thick tome from under his thigh and used it to cover his face. “I might fall asleep here,” he warned, “Pete kept me up all night with 80s movies.”

“The temptress,” Gerard laughed and started up whatever music he had playing before.

It was deep and slow, no singing but with a constant rhythmic beat. It lulled Patrick and he was grateful that Gerard was a quiet man. There was no press for conversation or need to fill the comfortable silence.

Patrick closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of old books. Gerard dropped a blanket over him and Patrick began to doze off.

He’d feel bad for being a terrible guest later, he decided.


	4. No Where to go But Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over the past seven days Patrick has consumed 433 calories.

_Patrick is six years old._

_He is built like his mother; short, round with rolls of “love” as she calls it wrapped around his middle and thighs._

_Not fat, “loved”._

_It didn’t bother him much, he had never known any different and if his mother and grandmother and great grandmother are to be taken into consideration, he probably never will._

_Kevin teases him sometimes about his weight but that’s okay, Kevin teases him about everything. If it wasn’t his love it would be about his comic books or his dumb stick-outy ears or his long hair Kevin said looked like a girl’s._

_Kevin was just a jerk like that, Patrick supposes._

_The day before his first day of school, he helps his momma make dinner. It is an old-fashioned feast so he has good food for sweet dreams to get him through the day. He stands on his stepping stool and kneads the pale white dough for the biscuits, watches it squish between his fingers and blend in with his skin._

_His momma is quiet; her brow furrowed in an uncharacteristic show of worry as she silently drops the potatoes into the pot of water to be mashed later. Drops of boiling water fall onto her bare arms and face. Patrick watches her shake them off like nothing. “Used to it, Ricky,” she tells him with a half-smile. “I’ve had much worse than hot water.”_

_She drops in the final potato and wipes her hands on her apron carefully. It is splattered with chicken blood, he knows. Even if he wasn’t there to see her cut it up, the remnants of it are still there._

_“First day, huh,” she says and smiles at him sadly. “All grown up, my baby boy.”_

_Patrick rolls his eyes because duh, he’s not a baby anymore he’s six!_

_And it’s not really his first day because he went to kindergarten but that was at a different school and he’s not going to admit how scared or lonely he thinks he’s going to be without his friends. He wonders if she’ll let him bring his bongo drum to show the others._

_“It’s just,” she continues and wipes her hands again, then her forehead. “Sometimes kids can be mean, that’s all and I’m worried for you.”_

_Patrick waited for more information because, duh, he knew that. Kevin was a kid and he was mean, so were all his friends. She sighs and smiles tiredly. “Don’t let them change you, Ricky, that’s all I’m saying,” she said and kissed his cheek. “Promise you’ll be good and brave for me tomorrow?”_

_Patrick promises._

_The next morning he goes to school with his bongo drum in his backpack, excited and feeling ready to burp up butterflies (Kevin said that happened sometimes if you ate too many vegetables and Patrick had cleared his plate last night)_

_A girl named Addie Mae has a drum too but hers has sticks and a strap for around her neck. He sits next to her in the Show and Tell Circle and waits for Missus Marcus to call him._

_She does and when he stands, the boys in the class begin to laugh._

_Patrick is wearing yellow and purple, (his favorites) he was sitting with the girls and he was fat._

_He tells them that he isn’t fat (only animals are fat, his momma said, fat pig, fat chicken, fat dog) he is loved. The biggest, missing three teeth right in the front stares at Patrick and his drum with his squinty brown eyes and says,_

_“Patrick Stump is a great **fat** lump.”_

Patrick woke with a start, bleary eyed half with something dead in his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut against the light and faint coils of a dream he couldn’t remember still residing on his eyelids ( _drums)_ , rolling over onto his belly. His face pressed almost painfully into a sharp hipbone and he shifted, sighing happily when he found a more comfortable position on a soft stomach. A hand began to card through his hair and although a bit surprised as Gerard wasn’t one for affection, Patrick hummed in appreciation.

"Going back to sleep?" the other man laughed fondly.

Patrick shot up, nearly falling off the bed as he glared at the intruder. “What the hell?” he demanded as he rubbed his eyes clear of sleep.

Pete snickered as Patrick glared at him. "Sorry, sorry," he said with a shit eating grin, "I guess that wasn't very nice of me." He patted the bed now clear of books and papers. “Lie back down?”

Patrick relaxed back onto the bed, stared up at the darker skinned man through his bangs. “Do I even want to know what you did with Gerard?” he asked mildly, “and I’m-” _sorry, I must have been crushing you_ was on the tip of his tongue before "wait, did you steal my hat?" slipped from between his lips.

Pete stroked the bill and grinned, raising one eyebrow defiantly. "What if I did, Stump? What are you going to do about it, huh?"

He huffed and took Pete’s knee, squeezed it before reaching up to brush the brim of the beloved BINGO cap. "Not cool, man," Patrick said and smiled despite himself.

Pete ruffled his hair and patted his cheek, tapping a slow beat along the bridge of Patrick's nose, pinkie tapping the frame of his glasses. "You're odd," Patrick mumbled as he continued down his nose and across his chin as his free hand played faux guitar on Patrick's forehead. "Really fucking odd," he added when Pete began to hum the opening cords to Sugar.

“We’re going down, down, down, down,” Pete sang and leaned over until his breath fanned hot across Patrick’s mouth. “Wanna know a secret?” he breathed.

Patrick blushed and turned his head, ignoring how close Pete’s mouth was to his. If he leaned forward just a little bit...

“Personal space, man.”

As usual, Pete did not listen. "Daily Stump Fact of the Day, you’re cute, Patrick. You are the cutest little thing to ever walk this planet and you have absolutely no idea, oh my god.”

“Shut up no I’m not.”

“So cute. Anyway, I'm getting kind of hungry, how about you? I think crafts is still open, how about some spaghetti? Or we can force Andy to make a pancakes run. Denny's is just down the street. McDonald's, too, I think."

Pete figured out a second too soon that it was the wrong thing to say. Patrick flinched like he had been slapped, shoulders huddling as he drew into himself. Dread settled like a ball of lead, low and heavy and cold in his stomach as Pete backtracked, “or maybe fruit, something less heavy. Soup?

 _I don’t want any food (good),_ Patrick thought bitterly, _I (don’t deserve it) am not hungry. Couldn’t you just (kiss you is that what you want, you want a handsome tattooed prince to kiss away your worries, oh poor baby) leave me the hell alone._

_How did he even know that I-_

_Looks like someone’s been a blabbermouth, Patty-Pat. Too bad for you._

Patrick scrambled up and away from the warm hands, watching Pete as the man blinked with shock. "What the hell did Gabe tell you?" he asked, because it had to be Gabe, didn't it, because he knew everything and had tricked him so easily with his stupid fake concern and his “I only want what’s best for you”’s

_-all of you-_

_Little Pumpkin Stumpkin,_ Better Half said delightedly, _thought that someone loved him!_

_ShutupshutupshutupSHUTUP_

Pete stood and Patrick took a step back, crossed his arms and pressed himself into a corner, holding himself together where his hands clutched at his sides.

"He didn't tell me anything," Pete said soothingly and held up his hands like Patrick was a frightened animal. "Okay, Jesus, I-well, it's almost six, I thought you might be hungry, lunch was a while ago. You don't want to perform on an empty stomach, do you? Come on, I'm sorry, really, it's okay." Patrick tensed as Pete took another step forward, cursed himself for being weak as he let himself be pulled into a tight hug, smelling nail polish and hand sanitizer as Pete ran his fingers through Patrick’s hair in a way he hoped was comforting.

"Gabe didn't say anything," he repeated as Patrick huddled against him, clutched his friend tightly to him like somebody would come to rip Patrick away, would try to hurt him even worse. "You know he'd never do that to you, he's pretty much ass over knees for you," Pete finished bitterly.

"Don't lie to me," Patrick spat and squeezed his hands into fists when his voice cracked. "Don't you dare lie to m- _e_!" the last word was broken in half and spat out with a gasp as Patrick tried to pull himself back together, hoping that any moment now he would be able to just wake up. "I can't-I, don't-I-" Pete frowned as he hugged his friend and not for the first time wished he was better with saying what he felt.

_Gabe’s a fucking idiot, I would never lie to you, I’m sorry, who’s hurt you, who was it, I will RIP them into PIECES, Patrick, don’t cry, fuck, fuck, Patrick, I’m going to kill whoever did this to you, I promise._

Gently, he set the trucker cap back on Patrick's head and patted it down, tilting the shorter man’s head up so he could look at him. “You didn’t eat lunch today did you?” he said gently. “Or breakfast.” Patrick jerked and tried to bolt and Pete pinned him against the wall, clasped Patrick’s hands in his and shoved a knee between his legs. “I don’t think you ate yesterday,” he continued, “I don’t think you’ve eaten at all for a long time, Patrick.”

Patrick struggled in his grasp and Pete winced as he began to fight. “Fuck off, Pete,” Patrick said angrily and Pete had to let go to duck the fist that came at him. “Get the hell of me; I am not having this conversation here and especially not with you.”

“Since the start of the tour maybe? Would you like to talk to someone else?” Pete asked. “Andy? Joe? Gerard? _Gabe?”_

Patrick stared at him hard, chewing his lip before letting out an ugly laugh. “You idiot,” he said mockingly, “you fucking idiot do you still think this is about fucking _Gabe?”_ he said stridently and laughed again, nearly choking as he bent over in hysterics. Pete struggled to support him as Patrick fell on his ass with a thud, huddling into a tight little ball. “It was never about Gabe,” he said, “it was never about anyone but me, I was the problem, Pete. Goddamnit.” Patrick said and scrubbed furiously at his cheeks when he began to cry in earnest.

Pete slid down to sit next to him, rested his chin on his knee as he patted Patrick on the back, murmured, “Patrick, you need help. If you’re not going to let me help you then,” Pete took a deep breath, “I’m going to tell Joe and Andy and pull us from Warped.”

“You can’t do that!” Patrick said shrilly. “Fuck you, Wentz! You can’t do that to me!”

“It’s for your own good!”

“You don’t know that! You don’t know how much I need this, how much I need the band; you can’t just get rid of me! I won’t let you!”

“Patrick, if you keep this up, _you are going to die,”_ Pete said, stressing each syllable. “ _You. Will. Die._ We need you too, Patrick, us, not the band and if you think we’re just going to stand by with our hands on our dicks and let you kill yourself you’re wrong, Stump.”

“One more show,” Patrick pleaded into Pete’s neck, grazing the collarbone with his teeth. Pete exhaled shakily, closed his eyes and sent off a quick prayer to whoever was listening.

_Keep an eye on this kid for me, okay?_

 “Alright, Patrick,” he said, “one more show.”

That night was shaping up to be one of the best gigs Fall Out Boy ever played. The crowd was electric and Patrick was dizzy and drunk on the sounds of their applause, feeling warm for the first time in days as he sang to thousands upon thousands of dirty punk rock kids with nowhere else to be but with each other and the music.

He gazed out into the stands, tried to memorize each and every one of their shifting, blurred faces as his vision began to fade out around the edges.

Their set was almost over when Patrick felt the nausea bubble up in the back of his throat, everything too loud and too bright all at once.

_No. Not here. Not now._

_Ticka Ticka Ticka Tock, time is running out,_ his mind shrieked and Patrick stumbled over the next line, lost _you need him I could be him_ to the crowd. He walked into the mic stand and nearly knocked it over, Pete materializing out of nowhere to grasp him by the shoulders as he swayed on his feet.

Joe belts out one more cord and stops, Andy standing up from his set as Patrick’s knees buckle and he slumps from the waist up into Pete’s  arms as the silence spirals in close to him, the roar of the crowd drowned out by the roaring in his ears.

Patrick lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

“-trick, Patrick, Patrick!” Pete screams and the world is beautifully, blissfully silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me a lot longer than I originally thought it would. I couldn't figure out who Patrick was supposed to wake up next to first it was Gerard then it was Gabe and then it was Gerard and then it was Gabe before I decided if anyone would creepily watch Patrick sleep it would be Pete. So there you go.


	5. You're Gonna Bring Yourself Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick kept his eyes closed for a time after he woke up. He took slow deep breaths and tried to will himself somewhere-anywhere that wasn’t where he was certain he was.
> 
> There was music playing softly somewhere to his right, Prince crooning Purple Rain and a hand steady on his knee, squeezing firmly. There was a low murmuring, voices too far away for him to recognize and the slow unsteady beat of his heart monitor.
> 
> He squeezed his eyes shut and thought, back on the bus, onstage, Chicago, dead, anywhere but here, please.
> 
> Patrick opened his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written entirely listening to The Killers All These Things I've Done

Patrick kept his eyes closed for a time after he woke up, thinking, _a few more seconds and this will be a dream, a bit longer and this won't have happened_. He took slow deep breaths and tried to will himself somewhere-anywhere that wasn’t where he was certain he was.

There was music playing softly somewhere to his right, Prince crooning Purple Rain and a hand steady on his knee, squeezing firmly. There was a low murmuring, voices too far away for him to recognize and the slow unsteady beat of his heart monitor.

He squeezed his eyes tighter and thought, _back on the bus, onstage, Chicago, dead, anywhere but here, please._

Patrick opened his eyes.

The light was blinding for a few moments as he adjusted to being awake, staring at the paneled ceiling of his hospital room. The grip on his knee tightened to too-tight-too-painful as Pete said, very quietly, “You fucking idiot.”

“Huh-” he rasped out and licked his dry lips. Pete dropped his head to cradle it in the junction of Patrick’s hip and thigh, moved his hand up to grasp Patrick’s and squeezed until their knuckles popped.

“Why?” is all he asked. “Why?”

Patrick held Pete’s hand tightly, squeezing and feeling a heartbeat through the pads of his fingers. Pete stood and Patrick dug in his nails, not willing to let go for whatever Pete felt he needed to leave him for. “No,” Patrick said desperately. “No, no.”

Pete froze and squeezed back comfortingly. “What is it, Patrick?” He asked worriedly. “Does something hurt? Do you need a nurse?”

“No.”

Pete huffed and plopped back down in the chair, the metal legs screeching against the linoleum. If it had been anyone else they would have left anyway but Pete had always been the best at hearing what Patrick didn't want to say. “You scared the shit out of me,” he said accusingly. “Out of everyone.” He stares at Patrick expectantly, eyeliner smudged down to the bridge of his nose and clothes wrinkled to hell, waiting for him to speak.

_They’re the same ones from the concert._

Patrick stared down at his lap, absentmindedly picking at the needle stuck in his forearm.

 _Was it morphine,_ he wondered? He was completely numb and yet hyperaware, not feeling the sheets against his arms or Pete tracing circles against his palm but the expansion of his lungs, the thrum of his heart in his chest.

_It’s beating too fast, can you feel it?_

_Like a rabbit/Onetwothreefourfiveseixseveneight/too fast/you’re going to die._

_It’s_

_going_

_to_

**_Stop_ **

Patrick inhaled through his nose, exhaled and tried to calm down. The monitor continued to beep, slowly and sporadically. “Are you going to say anything?” Pete asked him impatiently, taking the other hand that threatened to remove the IV. “Are you going to give us an explanation?” Patrick tried to think of something to say but words were Pete’s thing, Patrick was just the mime.

_I’m sorry._

_I’m not sorry._

_I didn’t mean to._

_It’s all my fault._

_I don’t need your help._

“I guess not. You gonna be contrary today, Rick ta life?” he asked and there was an edge of bitter amusement in his voice. “Goin’ four on us? Nothing but “no”’s?” He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard and then murmured, “What did you think was going to happen, Rickster? If you died?” he asked. “Did you think I would have let you go? Did you think I wasn’t going to follow you into hell? Did you think I could keep living without you? Because I couldn’t, Patrick, can’t, I wouldn’t have.”

“No,” Patrick said again, fiercely, “Pete, you can’t, why would you even think that?”

“Think what? That you were trying to kill yourself? Or that I couldn’t live without you?”

“Either!”

_I didn’t want to kill myself. I just wanted to be better. For you. For the band. For everyone._

“I don’t think you understand how much of me is you, Patrick,” Pete said and pressed Patrick’s hand to his mouth in an almost kiss. “How much blood and love I’ve borrowed from you just to keep going for this long.”

“You can’t die just because I’m no good, Pete,” Patrick said, curled his fingers around the dark skin of Pete’s chin, felt the rasp of two day stubble and dry lips on his fingertips.

“You are good,” Pete insisted, “so good, Patrick, you don’t even know.”

Patrick smiled at that and Pete sighed, nuzzled into his hand adoringly.

“Your mom’s here. So’s Kevin. They-they wanted to wait here but I asked to do it. I wanted to be here when you woke up. Do you want to see them now or later?”

 _Later_ , he thinks.

_Not ever._

_“_ I want to see her,” he says with just a bit of strength behind it and Pete flashes him a quick grin.

“Okay.”

* * *

Patrick had always considered his mother to be the strongest person in the world. Even when he had gotten older and figured out she was human and not some sort of parental-robot-superhero, he had never thought any less of her.

Patricia Stump was strong and brave and good. She was heavyset with muscle hiding sneakily in the roundness of her arms and legs. He had seen the damage she could do with a wooden spoon. He was terrified of what she was going to do with him once she got here, afraid of staring into his hero’s eyes and seeing disappointment but he needed her.

He was alone and scared and wanted his mom.

She breezed into the room and Patrick felt whatever had been holding him together until that point ( _Pete)_ drain out of him. He crumpled and held out his arms, feeling a sob form in his chest.

She pulled Patrick into a tight hug, being careful with the wires and tubes sticking out of his skin as a nurse he hadn’t noticed worked around their embrace. She had her normally neat hair pulled back into a messy bun, her sweatshirt stained with coffee and she looked more exhausted then he ever remembered having seen her. But Patrick didn’t really care about that.

She was his mom and he was so glad she could still stand the sight of him. Patrick buried his face in her neck and relaxed at the familiar smell of laundry soap and perfume. If he peeked out from her curtain of hair, he could see Kevin, standing in the doorway, guarding them from interlopers.

“Mom,” he choked out, “Mom, I-“

She shushed him and peppered his face with kisses, petting his hair as she rocked him like he was four years old and had fallen off the front porch steps again. “Oh, Rick,” she said mournfully, “Rick, baby, what happened?”

“I think I messed up, Mom,” he admitted and tried to blink away his tears, “I think I messed up really bad.”

The nurse awkwardly took his arm and replaced the needle, steadfastly ignoring the glare Patricia sent her way. “He’s going to need a chest x-ray and the bone density test now that he’s woken up,” she said over Patrick. “The blood test results will be coming back soon and then the doctor will decide what treatments to start.”

Patrick winced and his mother nearly hissed, “thank you,” she said, “I’m sure the doctor wherever he is would like to discuss it with me later _in person.”_ The nurse nodded serenely.

“Of course, ma’am.”

She swept the equipment out into the hall and closed the door behind his brother, her sensible heels click-clacking down the hall.

“What treatments?” he asked.

“Rick, we-”

“Mom, I need to talk to Patrick,” Kevin said gently. “Alone.”

She looked up at her eldest and scowled. “If you-”

“Mom, please, just for a bit,” he pleaded, stepping over to the bed. Kevin crossed the room in two steps, tangled his fingers in Patrick’s hair. “We need to say some things. As brothers.”

Patricia bit her lip and nodded. “Fine, but come get me when you’re done. I’ll call your father and let him know you’re awake.”

Kevin made no move until he heard the door closed again. “I told the doctors,” he said tonelessly. “About all the other times.”

Patrick fell back against the bed, felt his brother’s hands squirm under his neck to fluff his pillow. “You promised,” he said weakly. “You promised you wouldn’t say anything."

“You promised me you would never do this again, so I guess we’re both liars.” Kevin smiled bitterly. He sat down in the chair and crossed his legs, staring at Patrick like a bug through a microscope. “Do you know,” he began conversationally, “what years and years of malnutrition do to a body? It doesn’t just go away when you begin to eat again. It stays and lurks, in your bones, in your heart and brain until one day you wake up and your ankles snap or your heart gives out or aneurisms burst and everyone’s left wondering what happened.” Kevin leaned forward, “I am not going to let that happen to you.”

“Leave me alone,” Patrick said angrily. He reached out to punch him and growled when Kevin caught his fist. “You’re an asshole, get out, I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Mom should have never let you leave with _them_ ,” Kevin continued, “it only aggravated your condition, made it easier for you to spiral down.”

“Don’t you say that about them! Don’t you dare blame this on them! They didn’t do anything wrong! I’m the one who’s fucked up, okay? They-” Patrick gasped for air, ripped his hand away from his brother to angrily wipe at his eyes. “They saved my life, okay? So if you’re going to be mad at anyone, be mad at me, not them. Not the band.”

Kevin rubbed his little brother’s sideburns, forced a smile. “I hate it when you cry,” he said. “You look dumb.”

Patrick giggled, went for a punch and smiled when it landed and Kevin let out an overdramatic ‘oof!’

“You’re dumb,” he said.

“Eloquent as always, little brother,” Kevin said. “But who, exactly, is the doctor here?”

“I’m a rockstar.”

“Yes, you are,” he said and smiled. “Still dumb though.”

* * *

The next day they bring in a psychiatrist to talk to him. At his request, she closed the door and has his family and friends sent out for the next few hours. When she sat down, she smiled and he realizes uncomfortably that he is completely without his friends for the first time in months. Knowing there is no Pete or  Joe or Andy to hide behind makes him feel exposed, worse than naked. 

“Patient confidentiality means that everything you say will be kept between us, of course,” she says soothingly. “We can start when and where you like.”

Patrick stared at her, thinks, _this is the woman Pete Wentz would fall in love with_ as she tucks a strand of bright red hair back into her towering bun and smiled with equally red lips, her teeth as white as the pearls that hung from her neck and ears

She doesn’t have a clipboard, he noted, or a pen. She kept smiling even as the seconds drag on into minutes. It’s making him uncomfortable. He shifted and pulled the covers to his neck. Her grin gets wider. “Could you stop that?” he asked finally.

“Smiling?” she asks, “or humming?”

Humming?

He hadn’t noticed.

“Both, I guess,” Patrick said, “but mostly the smiling.”

She goes blank faced and they fall back into uneasy silence. “I’m not crazy,” he added when it becomes too overbearing.

“Hm?”

“I’m not crazy, I know there’s nothing I can say to make you believe me but that’s what everyone says when they’re talking to a psychiatrist, right? That they’re not crazy?”

“I have gotten that a few times in my career, yes.”

“And have they ever been telling the truth.”

“Once or twice.”

“Were they-the not-crazy ones, were they right?”

"I've come to discover only the truly insane ones fight for their sanity."

"I don't understand," Patrick admitted, curling his knees to his chest. "Were they crazy or were they insane?"

"A terrific question and one only they could answer."

That made a bit more sense and Patrick pondered it for a while, turned that bit of information over and over in his head like a broken cord. "Were they like me?"

“What do you consider like you?”

“Ruined.”

She looked at him. “I don’t think you’re ruined, Patrick, not anything of the sort.”

He swallowed. “I don’t like being lied to.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that I’m not lying then.”

“Isn’t that your job though?” Patrick asked a bit desperately. “Tell me I’m ruined or crazy and then help me find out how to fix it?”

“I thought you just said you weren’t crazy.”

He nearly screamed. “Get out!” he demanded. “I want a different therapist.”

“One that will tell you that you are crazy or one that will tell you that you aren’t? Because eventually, Mr. Stump, you’re going to have to figure that out for yourself.”

“Oh God,” he moaned and shoved his head under the bedsheets, “they stick the crazy person with the crazy psychiatrist, this is beautiful, I can already tell we’re going to work out well together.”

“Actually,” she said, “the hospital did not hire me, Pete Wentz did.”

Patrick peeked out from his cotton barrier and asked quietly, “what?”

“Families are allowed to bring in therapists of their choice if they wish. Pete Wentz used to be a long time client of mine, from 17 to when he 22.”

“What happened to patient confidentiality?”

“Pete has asked for a few things to be brought up in our sessions to see if they would help “knock you out of it”,” she said, making air quotes. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

“I don’t,” Patrick said.

“Pete came to me a few months after he was sent to bootcamp. He was angry at his parents and me and the world. He brought money with him to the sessions because he more often than not ended up breaking things. It took us a year and a half to diagnose his bipolar disorder and a few more months to straighten out his prescription. He became much more subdued after that. Over the course of the next few years, Pete reached highs and lows that I don’t feel comfortable telling you about even with his permission. He was loud and played screamo in my office and wore more eyeliner than my 15 year old daughter. One week he came into my office in a hoodie and pajama pants and told me, “Cherie, I want to die”, two weeks later he returned happier I had ever seen him.

“He nearly knocked over my bookshelf and ran laps around my room, like a puppy with a new toy. I asked him what caused the change and you know what he told me?”

Patrick shook his head.

“14 days after his relapse almost drove him to suicide Pete Wentz burst into my office and told me, “Cherie, Cherie, I met a boy, the most beautiful boy in the world. His name is Patrick and he is golden.”


	6. Ruined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What do you consider like you?"

Patrick took small, slow bites of his salad, having picked out the croutons and cucumbers and tomatoes, sawing at the leaves of lettuce with his fork. The little cup of ranch was ignored. Pete gnawed hard on the inside of his cheek, his own plate of spaghetti whole and untouched.

“Is that all?” he asked finally.

Patrick shrugged without looking up, staring at the bright greens and shreds of purple in front of him. He swallowed the last of his water and dropped his fork. “I’m done,” he said. “Thanks.”

Pete popped his knuckles and leaned forward, trying to catch Patrick’s eye. “Come on, Trick,” he implored, “a little more, for me?”

“I don’t want anymore,” Patrick insisted. Pete stared at him for a moment before nodding, smiling despite the disappointment in his eyes. Patrick felt a flash of guilt and tried to think of something to say as Pete flagged down their waiter for their check. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.

“I’ll get a to-go bag, no big deal, there’s no point keeping you waiting while I finish.”

 _I wouldn’t have minded,_ Patrick thought and smiled tightly. Pete stood and took Patrick by the shoulders, leading him out the door. “I’m sorry,” Patrick said once they were outside. “I-”

“Shut up,” Pete said simply. “Now, get in the car, Stump before the papz track us down. That waiter looked fuckin’ shifty, man, did you see his face when we walked in? Ten bucks our forks end up on EBay.”

“No, Pete, listen,” Patrick protested as he buckled up, “I know that you have better things to do then babysit me all day-”

“You used to stay with me on the phone all night,” Pete said, “do you remember that? You were, like, almost always grounded at the end of the month because the bill was so expensive. But your mom never really held you to it, did she? I think she knew how much I needed you, even back then.”

“Pete-”

“Makes a few lunches look like a walk in the park, huh?” Pete laughed bitterly. Without looking away from the road, Pete placed his hand on Patrick’s and squeezed. “I’m trying really hard not to seem like some stalkerish, overly possessive asshole but I don’t want you to be alone right now. _I_ don’t want to be alone right now. So you might have to give up your couch for a few days.”

Patrick laughed and Pete grinned, giving himself a moment to commit the sound to memory. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch, man, I have a guest bed, remember?”

“On the second floor,” Pete whined, “what if I have a bad dream?” Patrick hit him in the side and rolled his eyes.

“You’re 26 years old, Pete.”

“Age is nothing but a number, Patrick,” Pete chided as they pulled into the driveway. “You of all people should know that.”

“Oh my god.”

Patrick slammed the car door and began to walk up the path while Pete cut across the lawn, nearly tripped over one of the stupid fucking gnomes Pete had bought and somehow glued to the ground. The bassist unlocked the door and waited for his band mate, hitting Patrick across the ass as he passed. “Good to be home,” Pete smiled, tossing his coat over the hanger and stretching.

There was a flush of warmth in Patrick’s stomach and he smiled, focusing on locating the remote instead of the sliver of dark flesh and ink like he wanted. “You have your own house, you know,” Patrick reminded him gently, plopping down on the couch. Pete jumped over the risen back and sat to the left of Patrick, unlacing his shoes and throwing them off to the side.

“Mine isn’t cozy like yours,” Pete countered and laid himself down and over Patrick’s lap.

“I told you that place was too big,” Patrick said and yawned.

“You were right. I don’t like it; it’s too big and empty.”

“You know you can stay here for as long as you want,” Patrick added. “Fuck, you could even move in if you really wanted to. Bring Hemmy.” He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, beginning to worry as the silence stretched on.

“Could I really?” Pete asked finally. “Would you let me?”

“Of course you could, don’t be stupid. I'm not used to silence anymore anyways. If you can put up with me, you can definitely stay.”

“I’m always going to put up with you,” Pete argued. “even when you’re talking about Prince and early 1920s jazz.”

“Thanks, that’s good to know.”

Pete seemed embarrassed by his sudden influx of feeling and turned his attention to _Friends_. Patrick dozed, focusing on the warm heavy weight across his legs and how Pete’s hair tickled his fingers.

“Fuck,” Pete said suddenly, “I think I left the spaghetti in the car.” Patrick gave a sleepy chuckle. Pete snickered and twisted so he was on his back, staring at Patrick and the way his hair fell over his eyes and down his neck. “Patrick,” he said, and then again, “Patrick. Patrick. Patrick.”

“Shh,” Patrick mumbled. “Trying to sleep.”

“Not on the couch, come on, man, you know it fucks with your back.”

“Hnn.”

Pete pushed himself up and crouched between his open legs, wrapping both arms around his waist and standing, tottering as he carried Patrick to his bedroom like a child. “Bed time, Patrick, if you’re good I’ll tell you a story,” Pete said cheerfully.

“You’re going to drop me,” Patrick grumbled and locked his arms over Pete’s neck.

“I would never,” Pete said simply and pulled back the comforter, Patrick unwrapping his legs from his waist and collapsing into bed, wriggling out his pants and placing his hat on the bedpost. Pete resisted the urge to join him, stared at how small Patrick made himself, how he pulled the blankets over his head until only tufts of golden hair were visible.

“Just get in here,” Patrick said, his voice muffled and low, “Jesus. Waiting for a formal invitation? You like a puppy left on a curb.”

Pete grinned and shed his jeans, crawled over the lump and shoved his face into a pillow. It was still pretty early, the bedside clock was only blinking 8 and Pete already knew from the buzz in the back of his mind that he wasn’t going to be getting any sleep this particular night but he didn’t really care. He would be content to guard over Patrick tonight and chase away any bad dreams that happened their way. He was played with this thought for a moment more, him as a brave knight and Patrick as a pretty princess before a swift kick to the knee distracted him.

“I have therapy in the morning,” Patrick said, “at noon, set an alarm, or something, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Story, now, Wentz,” Patrick said, his sleepy blue eyes peering out from his blanket. “You promised.”

Grinning, Pete rolled until he was flush with Patrick, tossed a leg over where he thought there was hip and shoved his face into Patrick’s shoulder. “Once upon a time,” Pete began, “there was a prince who didn’t want to be a prince and so he set off in the dead of night to find adventures and the true meaning of rock’n’roll and-” he rambled on even as Patrick’s breathing slowed and his eyes slid shut, continued on until his voice was hoarse and his throat hurt. When his story finally finished, the clock read 12 and Pete was sure he was going to sound like hell in the morning.

Patrick snored softly and Pete sighed, risking a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. It was worth it, he supposed.

* * *

 

Sleep evaded Pete that night, just like he thought it would. He woke Patrick at 9 and squirmed into the warm indent he left behind as the singer went to take a shower. Patrick stumbled out in a flash of steam, bundled in a Blink-182 t-shirt (that Pete was pretty sure was his) and cardigan and jacket with his Batman pajama bottoms. Pete quirked an eyebrow at him and Patrick flushed.

“I’m going to be comfortable doing this,” he protested, “okay?”

It made an odd sort of sense and Pete nodded. “Okay.”

They went downstairs and Pete made breakfast as Patrick paced in the living room. He wasn’t much of a cook but after he had gotten a copy of the sheet of “safe foods” and meal schedule Cherie had given Patrick, he had memorized the recipes.

Wednesday breakfasts were omelets, with egg whites and no cheese as long as Patrick would drink two glasses of milk, (whole that Pete had secretly poured into a 2% container) and have an extra side serving with dinner.

 Pete made scrambled eggs for his own meal, cheesy and nearly black with pepper and eaten straight from the pan as Patrick slowly cut his breakfast into halves and then thirds and quarters and fifths and sixths before placing each piece delicately in his mouth, chewing and swallowing, looking more and more pained and ready to cry by the time he was halfway done and Pete refilled his glass. He looked so unhappy and helpless that it physically hurt for Pete to refuse him, to make him finish the last few bites and down the milk like others would a glass of poison. "Thank you," Pete said reverently when the ordeal was over. "Thank you for doing that for you."

Patrick smiled.

They watched television for an hour afterwards, to “kill time” _(to make sure he doesn’t sneak off to the bathroom, to make sure it digests properly and Patrick doesn’t throw it all up an away)_ before leaving.

Cherie worked in a strip of quaint little buildings that look more like houses than psychiatric offices. She smiled at Pete as he handed off Patrick, who looked small and miserable as he clutched his stomach and the door closed with a damning sense of finality.

They had cartoons playing in the small lobby and Pete noticed the pajama look was very popular with the other patients, two teenage girls with half shorn heads and matching Wonder Woman pajamas clutching each other’s hands, a boy in a tiger striped onesie and a pirate hat, his mother out front smoking and an androgynous person who smiled at Pete over a nearly destroyed copy of _The Regulators._ They had orange and black braces with short dreads and were just the sort of person he would have fallen in love with a few years ago.  

But he can’t really focus on them, or the idea that they look pretty legal and that he and Patrick aren’t really dating or whatever the fuck that blue blob thing was doing on the TV and can only hope Cherie can help Patrick.

She had fixed him, right?

And he was a much bigger mess than Patrick could ever be.

Pete made himself relax, feeling antsy and tired as the seconds ticked by. If this is what his parents had felt like all these years then he figured he’d have to stop at Target and get them a fucking card because he thinks he finally got it.

His sessions had always lasted hours, as Pete talked about everything from school to people to television, savoring the feeling of someone just listening to him for once.

_“I met a girl on the way to school and she had a thin little neck and an almost straight line of beauty marks going down her neck and I got to kiss the one right over her pulse.”_

_“I read the most amazing book the other day, I have no idea of half the shit they were saying but they blew shit up and got married and it was cool.”_

_“They served lasagna in the cafeteria and this one kid ate eight pieces of it on a dare. He threw up all over the principle.”_

_“I met a boy, the most beautiful boy in the world. His name is Patrick and he is Golden.”_

In retrospect, he understood why she hadn’t believed he was really in love and had wanted to talk to him about his habit of jumping into shallow waters so quickly. Pete had hardly believed it himself and he was there for the entire thing.

* * *

 

Cherie knew on some level that she and Pete were closer than maybe professionally allowed and that she was taking a big risk taking in this patient. She had gotten her degree in psychology and while her specialty was in mental disorders, she had never dealt with an anorexic before. There was no guarantee that she wouldn’t make things worse but she had to try.

Meeting the famed, golden Patrick had been odd, even if it was something she had been looking forward to for years. She had listened to the music, heard the stories and was now going to see him in the flesh, if not in the context she had been hoping for. Cherie knew her expectations had been a little high but from Pete’s descriptions, could you really blame her?

_Golden, perfect, an angel, gorgeous, amazing, funny, intelligent, modest, a bit shy so you have to be gentle with him._

Cherie had been expecting no less than the reborn Dalai Lama and had been a bit disappointed at the quiet boy she had approached in a hospital room.

She didn’t know what she expected exactly but it had certainly been more than that.  ( _she knew it wasn’t fair of her to think that, knew what happened to people placed on pedestals_ )

Their sessions had been going well, however, and she was confident in his recovery. She hadn’t lost a patient yet and she was not going to start anytime soon, God willing, especially not this one.

Years ago, Cherie had almost lost Pete ( _they had sent him to boot camp and she had watched helplessly as all his progress was washed away with a few blows of a whistle_ ) and she would not let that happen again. Because Cherie knew, better than anyone, that if there was no Patrick, there would be no Pete.

( _Sometimes I wonder if there are others like me out there._

_And by like you, you mean?_

_Pete stared at her with blank eyes, devoid of any light._ )

( _"Were they like me?_

_“What do you consider like you?”_

_He looks small and afraid and heartbreakingly familiar._ )

( ** _Ruined)_**


	7. Maybe Everything Will Be Okay Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have something to tell you too, Patrick,” Pete said, “and I’ll make you a deal.” He waited until Patrick peeked back at him. “If you don’t finish your fruit, you have to tell me, if you do, I’ll tell you my secret, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled "Fuck, I Forgot About Gabe", "I Lied, No It Won't", "Patrick is a Shut-In" or "I Know Far Too Much About Peyote"

At Patrick’s insistence, Pete went home that night.

The house was quiet in a way that he wasn’t used to and Patrick felt worse and worse as time went on. He curled up on the couch and put on some shitty comedy with canned laughter to keep him company, engulfed in blankets that smelled musky from disuse.

About half an hour later, he was close to dozing, half-aware the show was over and that it was five o’clock, time for his snack.

Today was Wednesday, he could have a cup of Greek yogurt, plain, or a mixed fruit cup.

He had just decided on the fruit cup when the doorbell rang. Patrick stood, wrapped the blankets tighter around him and shuffled over to the door. “Pete,” he groaned as he unlocked it, “Pete, go the fuck home man.” Patrick opened the door and froze.

Gabe smiled weakly at him, looking nervous and out of place on Patrick’s doorstep in his pink and green tracksuit. “It’s not Pete,” he said sheepishly, “so can I stay?”

Patrick bit his lip and nodded, stepped to the side to let him through.

“I think we need to talk,” Gabe said and sat down on the loveseat, waiting for Patrick to get comfortable on the couch. “About…fuck, about a lot of things.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t need to tell me what happened your last night of Warped,” Gabe said, “I have a feeling you don’t want to and have done enough explaining to last you a life time.” He bit his lip. “I think I figured it out, anyway.”

“Alright,” Patrick said, “then what do you want to talk about?”

“I love you,” Gabe said seriously, “you don’t have to do to shit about it but know. I love you and I want you to be happy, even if it isn’t with me. But I feel like I have to ask, is there any chance you could settle for me?”

Patrick shifted under his little mound and thought about it seriously. Gabe, for a short period, had been his everything. He had been the first person Patrick thought about when he woke up in the morning, half-hard and lonely and the last when he went to bed, feeling cold without another person next to him like he had gotten so used to.

Gabe had been Patrick’s first boy everything, the first person who had made Patrick feel like he could be attractive before everything was calories and grams of fat and late nights standing on a scale until his toes went numb.

But he had been pushed out so easily. Patrick was so use to functioning without him, had barely spared him a thought when he was gone and if he left again today, Patrick would not feel his loss for very long.

Not like-

“No,” Patrick whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Gabe soothed. “I expected as much and it’s totally fine, really. Next topic.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, just let me…” Gabe took a few deep breaths, rolled his shoulders back and grinned happily. It looked genuine and Patrick found himself smiling back. “Okay, I have a good hold of myself, let’s keep going, yeah?”

“I guess,” Patrick said, “what else is there?”

“You’re in love with Pete.”

“I’m not,” Patrick found himself automatically denying.

“Uh, yeah, dude, you are. Like, I’m not saying this to be that asshole who thinks if you’re not in love with him it’s because of your best friend or even because I’m like on sooo much peyote right now, like, you’re in love with Pete and he’s in love with you and it would be a damn shame if you guys didn’t figure it out and have twenty gay rockstar babies.”

“Exactly how much peyote is “sooo much” because I think I should call a doctor?”

“A few dozen buttons, no biggie anyway back to your big gay love affair…”

“Gabe, please stop.”

“No because like you need to know this!” Gabe shot back. “Do you know that Pete came to me like the day after you collapsed and tried to beat the shit out of me because he thought I had something to do with it? And, like, after I convinced him I didn’t he started crying and freaking out. Dude’s head over heels, man.”

“He couldn’t love someone-“

“I swear to whatever Deity is out there if the next words out of your mouth are ‘like you’, I’m gonna fuck up some shit, Patrick, you precious little human being. Pete is in love with you and you’re in love with him and you’re both great and deserve to be happy so get your heads out of your asses already, Christ Almighty.”

“Great talk, Gabe,” Patrick said dryly.

“Hey it would have been a lot more suave and coherent if you didn’t insist on making me mess up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No big deal,” Gabe said cheerfully, “as long as I get to be bridesmaid at the wedding.”

“There’s not going to be a wedding.”

Gabe growled. “Ugh, really, are you going to do this? Goddamn it, Patrick. If you don’t believe me, at least talk to Pete about it. Please. For the sake of everybody who is waiting for you guys to just get together already.”

“I’ll think about it,” Patrick said.

“Good,” Gabe said, satisfied for now. He stood and bent over Patrick. “I want to kiss you, on the cheek. Can I?”

“Yes.”

Gabe kissed him, sighed against his cheek and murmured, “go for it, you won’t regret it,” and hurried out the door.

Patrick heard the door slam closed and touched his cheek, feeling the words warm and soft on his skin like they were imprinted there.

 _Go for it,_ Gabe had said.

Patrick stood and went to go make himself something to eat.

* * *

 

Pete had only been home for two hours and he was already feeling antsy. He had cleaned up the mess Hemmy had left an taken the puppy for a run around the neighborhood, getting so caught up in thinking that he had to carry the exhausted dog back home. He was pretty cute when he wasn’t destroying Pete’s leather tunic.

Patrick was right ( _I always am, Wentz)_ the house was too big for him. Bad thoughts and ideas ( _pills, razors, cars, ropes, guns)_ bled out his ears and stuck to the ceiling, bumping against the walls and spinning lazily around the room when he turned on the ceiling fan and when he breathed in too deeply the pills he tasted rolling down his throat felt so real he had to double check the bathroom cabinet was still as empty as the day Patrick came in and swept everything into a plastic bag and dumped it in the garbage.

( _“Never again, Pete,” he said and that tired, drawn look would never really disappear from his face again, “if you’re sick, you can just come stay with me or something. Those cabinets aren’t allowed to have anything in them ever again.”_

_And they didn’t.)_

Hemmy snuffled in his sleep and adjusted his head in Pete’s lap. He was trying to write now, think of new songs for their next album but he was tired and the words weren’t coming out like he wanted to.

His phone rang and Hemmy barked, bolting off Pete’s lap as it blasted _America’s Suitehearts_ in his delicate ears. “Sorry, buddy,” he soothed and stroked his back until he settled, flipping open his phone. “Patrick?” he asked because it couldn’t be anyone else, Andy and Joe were in an entirely different time zone and his mom never called anything but his house phone.

“Pete,” Patrick said, “how’s the house?”

“Empty, just like you said,” Pete answered ruefully. “Hemmingway destroyed my tunic while I was gone.”

“The leather one with the drawstrings?”

“Uh-huh.”

“No big loss. That thing was absolutely hideous.”

“Hey!” Pete complained. “I liked it, don’t mock my pain.”

“I’m not!” Patrick laughed. “Really, I get it, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t leave the little guy alone so much.”

“Well, I wanted to stay with you and I-”

“Bring him back with you tonight.”

“What?” Pete asked, not sure if he heard right.

“Bring Hemmy back with you, unless you want to stay at your house,” Patrick said nervously. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like an order but since you don’t like your house at night I figured-”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Pete interrupted cheerfully. “Come on Hemmy!” Pete pulled everything perishable from the fridge and dropped  it into a trash bag, feeding Hemmy the last strips of bacon out of the package as he shuffled back and forth between the rooms, unplugging all the appliances and turning off the lights before heading back to his bedroom.

Pete shoved as many clothes as he could fit into his touring duffle, dropping the clothes he hadn’t bothered to wash from Warped onto the floor and kicking them under the bed. He didn’t think he’d want to wear any of those ever again. He whistled for Hemmy as he shouldered the back and nearly ran down the stairs. He had a few weeks’ worth of clothes and maybe that was a bit much but Patrick should know how many miles Pete would make out an inch.

It was still bright outside as Pete locked the door and bounded to his car, throwing his bag into the trunk and helping Hemmy into the backseat.

“We’re going to go see Uncle Patrick!” he cooed, “yes we are, yes we’re going to see Uncle Patrick!” Hemmy barked appreciatively and Pete smiled. His dog had good taste in people.

Pete couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face as he pulled up to Patrick’s blue little house, waiting for the family across the street to head inside before getting out, scooping up the pitbull as the door opened.

Patrick smiled at Pete, spooning cubes of fruit into his mouth. “Hey,” he said shyly.

“Hey,” Pete said and grinned at the sight, Hemmy wriggling in his arms. “Got any more mangos?”

“One more, I think, come inside, I’ll make you your own.”

Pete relaxed as the door closed behind him, set Hemmy delicately on the floor and watched him skitter off. “I walked him before we came so your floors should be safe,” he said and pulled out a chair at the breakfast bar.

“Oh joy,” Patrick said, “Batman cup or Superman?”

“Batman, duh,”

“I should have guessed.” Patrick sliced at the fruit, very aware of how Pete was staring at him from across the island. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Pete said, watching adoringly as Patrick popped a strawberry in his mouth with no prompting. “Nothing could be better, actually.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and swallowed “Grapes?”

“Yes, please.”

“Here you go.” Patrick watched him eat in silence, picking at his own half-empty cup before spearing a slice of orange with his fork, feeling the familiar nausea build up in his gut as he began to chew. He should have waited until he was done eating before inviting Pete over, it was always harder when there were people around. Patrick always felt so awkward, aware of how he looked as he shoveled food into his mouth. But Pete hadn’t seemed to notice. He had looked so damn happy watching Patrick eat.

Patrick swallowed hard and sighed.

“Is everything okay?” Pete asked, the happy feeling fading as Patrick set down his fork. _Pick it up, come on, just a few more bites, please God._ Patrick did not pick it back up and Pete wilted slightly, rolling a grape between his fingers.

“Can I ask you something?” Patrick asked. “It’s pretty important.”

“What?”

Patrick bit his lip and let his head fall to the counter. “Never mind,” he said. “Never mind.”

“I have something to tell you too, Patrick,” Pete said, “and I’ll make you a deal.” He waited until Patrick peeked back at him. “If you don’t finish your fruit, you have to tell me, if you do, I’ll tell you my secret, okay?”

“Pete I’m not a little kid, you can’t play those kind of games with me, I’m not going to fall for it.”

“Oh, you will,” Pete said and picked up the fork. “Or I swear to God, I’m calling your mom and your dad and your brother and Joe and Andy and Cherie and telling them you’re not eating. So open wide, Patrick.”

Patrick glared and sat up straight. “Pete, I-”

“Choo choo!” Pete chanted and shoved a cube of watermelon forward. Patrick growled and bit it harshly, nearly snapping the plastic utensil as he chewed.

“Give me the fucking fork,” he said.

“You can’t get mad at me,” Pete counted as Patrick chased it down with a handful of grapes, “for what I tell you.”

“I won’t get mad, Pete, not unless it’s really stupid, like you killed somebody,” Patrick tried to joke when he saw the mischief drain from his friends face.  “Then we’ll just call Charlie and Worm and pretend like nothing ever happened, okay? Ha.”

“Ha,” Pete whispered, watching the cup empty with a growing sense of doom. It really wasn’t as much fun a game as he remembered. Then again, he and his mom played for desserts and extra TV time not-

“Last piece,” Patrick said and waved the fork around, “better make this good, Pete, I swear.”

“I can’t promise anything.”

Patrick chewed the mango slowly, careful not to let it dribble from his lips as he spoke. “Hey, come on, man, calm down, it can’t be that bad.” Pete pursed his lips and watched the bob of Patrick’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “Look, if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.”

“I love you.”

Patrick froze. “I’m sorry you’re going to have to repeat that.”

“I love you,” Pete repeated calmly. Patrick swallowed hard.

“Oh.”


	8. The World's Not Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I fucked up really bad.”

“Yeah,” Pete said awkwardly. “You know what? Let’s forget about it, let’s pretend that I never said a word, okay? I ‘m sorry, Jesus Christ I-”

“No it’s okay,” Patrick said hurriedly, “really.”

“Do you uh, like me back?” Pete dropped his head onto the counter. “Fuck, wait; forget I said that, oh my God.”

“Do I have to forget?” Patrick asked quietly.

“Wait, what?” Pete peeked out from the barrier of his crossed arms. “Do you?”

“Uh, maybe, yeah? Kind of. Yes.”

“Yeah?” Pete breathed and sat up straight.

Patrick flushed. “Yeah.”

Pete smiled and leaned over the counter, pulling Patrick down by the shoulders into a kiss, humming adoringly against his closed lips. “Say it,” he begged when he pulled away, “please, please, please.”

“I love you,” Patrick said and Pete sighed.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

Pete kissed Patrick again quickly and clambered onto the breakfast bar, opening his legs to hold Patrick between them. “I love you too,” he said and kissed the top of his head. “I love you so much.”

Patrick squirmed as Pete tightened his legs, wrapping them around Patrick’s waist and locking them at the ankles. Pete grinned down at him and Patrick leaned forward to hide his blush. “You’re terrible,” he responded into Pete’s stomach, “horrible, I changed my mind; I don’t love you at all.”

“You wound me,” Pete said and kissed the top of his head. “Really, you do.”

Patrick wrapped his arms around Pete’s waist, breathing in the scent of sweat and dog and leather. If he hadn’t had years’ and years’ worth of smelling like trash as well it might have bothered him but Pete just smelled like home, dirty vans and touring and everything Patrick knew about the world.

Hemmy walked between their feet, stood on his hind legs and barked at them as Pete kissed Patrick’s neck. “Don’t traumatize your dog,” Patrick said mildly and pulled back as Pete’s hands began to wander up his shirt.

Pete whined. “It isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before,” he muttered and let his hands fall to the edge of the counter.

“Oh well when you put it like that.”

“Whatever, you know you can’t wait to get a piece of me.” Pete leaned back and spread his arms seductively, hooking one leg over Patrick’s shoulder.

“Pete, please stop.” Patrick said and stood. Pete frowned and slid onto the floor.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “I was just teasing. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything.”

“No, it’s fine, really,” Patrick said. “Look, can we just forget about it? I’m tired and I’m not thinking straight.”

“Okay, sure,” Pete said, unconvinced. He followed Patrick back into the living room, scooping Hemmingway into his arms. He squeezed in the space Patrick left behind and snuggled his face against a sharp hip. “Love you,” he muttered.

Patrick smiled

_Not true not true liar_

and snickered as Hemmy wiggled out of Pete’s grip and up Patrick’s chest, licking happily at his glasses. “Gross,” he muttered without any real heat, scratching the dog behind its ears as Pete flicked through the tv channels. It was almost sickeningly domestic and more than he ever thought he would receive. It was almost everything he had ever wanted but his stomach churned uncomfortably in his gut and he felt numb.

He had been so excited, so happy when Pete said he loved him and now he… he was just tired to be honest.

Patrick closed his eyes, let the forced laugh and smile die and wither and pressed the wriggling animal closer to his neck, sighing as Hemmingway melted against him, feeling the little heart beat fast and comforting against his own.

Pete grinned and kissed a pronounced rib, trying to keep the grimace off his face as he felt Patrick’s hip rub against his chest, a cold reminder that he wasn’t completely better yet.

 Recovery took time, he reminded himself, years, decades even. He would wait and be patient and do everything he could to make things as easy for Patrick as possible. “I love you,” Pete said, mostly to himself, _and I will do anything everything you ever want to need_

“You too,” Patrick said.

Pete woke up sometime in the night alone. Hemmingway slept curled on the loveseat and the room was dark except for the glow of the television, muted. He stretched and tried to shake the sleep from his legs as he wobbled to the bathroom, hoping to encounter his missing Patrick somewhere along the way. Light shone from underneath the door and he could hear the faint whir of the vents going.

Something pricked at the back of his mind a feeling he couldn’t quite describe but nonetheless made him very antsy. Pete decided, for posterity, to try the door.

It wasn’t locked and Pete, with a short pause, stepped inside. “Patrick,” he said. “What are you doing?”

Patrick looked up at Pete, eyes red behind his glasses. He had shoved himself in the farthest corner of the bathroom, legs splayed before him with a towel pressed to his mouth. Patrick pulled it away and Pete felt his heart drop in his chest at the smears of red on the white material.

“I fucked up,” Patrick said and pressed the towel back to his face. “I fucked up really bad.”

Pete dropped to his knees and crawled forward. “Patrick, open your mouth, let me see.” He grasped Patrick’s face with one hand, pulling the towel away and tossing it across the room. “Come on, open your mouth.”

Pete squeezed and Patrick reluctantly unlocked his jaw. Pete could see the fresh scrapes along his gums and the back of his throat, raw, red and oozing blood. “Oh God,” Pete moaned, “Patrick.”

Patrick closed his mouth with a snap, pulled away from Pete. “I’m fine,” he said and tried to smile. “I’ll be okay, really.”

“Patrick, you just had a relapse,” Pete said, and began sifting through the mountains of information the pamphlets and videos had given him, trying to find something that could help them. It wasn’t as easy as it was when you were just reading about it, when it was your best friend and possible-probable love of your life had just made himself vomit until he bled and now needed you to be strong and help him and not some picture of a model in sweats looking constipated.

Patrick was the graphs and diagrams of skeleton and bones wrapped in spider web thin skin they saved for last, the statistics and points that told Pete, warned him, promised him _only X amount of men suffer from Anorexia Nervosa, only X develop bulimia._

_(he hadn’t learned anything on bulimia, just the basic facts, he had learned how to cook and force food into him, had never given much thought onto what happens afer Patrick ate because she told him, Cherie told him that would be the biggest battle just getting him to eat and Pete had felt good so good when he had slid those last bits of fruit that he had forgot, forgotten the most important part of all that only_

_Only X survive_

_And what was X what was X he couldn’t remember)_

He had skimmed it, so confident that they could get through it because this was Patrick and Patrick always pulled himself together when Pete needed him, always seemed so stable and strong. “Pete,” Patrick said, “Pete, Pete, I’m scared,” and then he spat, pink onto the floor and moaned. “Pete.”

Pete hugged him fiercely, cradled Patrick against him and enveloped him in his arms. “Patrick, you’re going to be okay,” he promised, “you’re going to be fine, just fine, don’t worry, we’re going to get help.”

“I fucked up,” Patrick repeated and sobbed.

“No, no you didn’t it’s okay, Patrick, I love you, okay, I love you and you love me and we’re going to get through this,” Pete swore, “okay, I need you to trust me.”

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” Patrick whispered.

“We have to get you to a doctor, they’ll know what to do, they’ll fix you up, come on, Patrick.” Pete tried to stand, Patrick limp and terrifying light in his arms, bone rubbing against him in ways that might have seemed intimate at one point.

Now it just made him afraid.

“Pete, please no hospital.”

“Patrick, come on, we have to go.”

“Doctor, no hospital, I can’t go back, Pete, _please.”_

Pete sagged against him, felt tears burn through his shirt. “What do you need, baby?” he asked, anguished, “what can I do to help you when I can’t even get you to a fucking doctor? Come on, Patrick, don’t do this to me, please.”

“No hospital, just a doctor,” Patrick begged and it finally clicked.

“Okay, baby,” he murmured, slipping back down to the floor, “okay, okay, I’ll get you a doctor. I love you. Don’t be afraid.”

Kevin arrived thirty minutes later, shirtless and barefoot, in garish green pajama bottoms and a fluffy black robe. He snarled at Pete, “where is he?” and nearly sprinted to Patrick when he got the answer, medicine bag thumping against his hip.

“Oh, fuck, Patrick,” he groaned when he saw his brother, “you fucking promised.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said as Kevin knelt beside him and winced as he probed his neck and lower jaw. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” Kevin said and shined a flashlight down Patrick’s mouth. “There isn’t anything I can do,” he said, “you’ll need a spray to keep away infection, I’m pretty sure you can pick that up from a pharmacy.” He twisted his neck to stare at Pete. “He needs to go to a therapist,” he said, “a _real_ hospital for a full body inspection. Another scan, maybe.

“No,” Patrick said.

“I’m sorry but you have lost your deciding for yourself privileges. He’s shaking, his teeth are chipping and tinted blue. So are his nails. I don’t have the slightest clue what could possibly be going on in his stomach or even his intestines. He’s bloated. Patrick, did you take any laxatives?”

“No, I-“

“Tell me the _truth_ , Rick, did you take any laxatives? Any medicines of any sort?”

“No,” Patrick repeated, looking terrified. “I-we didn’t have any. This was the fastest way.”

Kevin continued to stare at Pete, tears building in his eyes. “Call his therapist,” he said in a voice low and deadly, “I’ll stay with him. Then we’re going to get him something warm to wear and take him to the hospital, okay?”

“Okay,” Pete said and Patrick groaned,

“No hospitals, I can’t-”

“Patrick,” Kevin said, “I’m so sorry we have to do this to you but you need a doctor, we need to know what’s going on inside.”

“We won’t tell anyone you don’t want us to,” Pete promised and ignored the look Kevin shot him. He may know what is best for Patrick but Pete knows how to execute it. You can’t force Patrick into anything, you need to give and take or he clamps up and you’re left four steps back from where you started. “Just you, me, Kevin and Cherie.”

Patrick looked unconvinced and Pete smiled wryly. “It fucking sucks, I know,” he said, “but we have to do it. Now come on.” Patrick sighed and stood, legs trembling. Kevin gentle took his hands and helped walk him out and down the hall. Pete grabbed his coat and draped it over Patrick, picking up Patrick’s beaten up shoes to slip on in the car.

Hemmingway snoozed on and Pete felt a flash of sadness for the poor dog as he hastily filled his water and food bowls, having to be alone again. But it wasn’t big enough for him to regret locking and shutting the door behind him.

It wasn’t cold at all and Pete was glad for it, helping Patrick climb into Kevin’s car. It would be one less thing to worry about. “Shoes,” he said and Patrick nodded, trembling fingers beginning to unlace one knot.

Kevin looked at him with a mixture of begrudging acceptance and irritation and if that was the best he was going to get Pete would take it. Patrick leaned against Pete, tiredly, sighed and when Pete looked down at him, he seemed years ahead of his age. “I love you,” Pete told him.

“I love you too,” Patrick mumbled and yanked the hood of the coat over his head. Pete zipped it for him and undid the buttons of the pockets so Patrick would have somewhere to have his hands. Kevin sized up this display and frowned thoughtfully when Pete kissed the tip of Patrick’s nose.

“You’re going to be okay,” Pete said and they ignored the quiver in his voice. “We’re all going to be okay.” 


	9. I Wish He Hadn't (The Story of Your Ribs)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete wasn’t magic and wishes weren’t real and when he opened his eyes everything was as it was.

Pete wasn't allowed to come with them and it hurts. The Stump(h)s are private people and would rather this wasn’t leaked to the paparazzi. Pete understood; he's been in their position before and out of all of them, he’s the most recognizable. Kevin escorted his little brother inside while he sat like an asshole in the car. Patrick had smiled regretfully over his shoulder and Pete hoped the way he reached out wasn't just in his imagination. He resisted the urge to chase after them. To stumble after Patrick and cling to him because what if this time he doesn't come back out. What if Patrick never came back for him and Pete was left all alone?

He amused himself for a moment by jumping to the back, lying down and stretching, watching his ribs rise from his chest like a kraken from the sea. He’s never really thought much about how thin he was. He didn’t eat much and what he did never really stuck to him. It wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t think, when he thought about his favorite or best features, his bones and his sharp hatchet hips. They were just there, a part of Pete. He was elbows and sharp angles and dips that he was constantly sticking himself with.

Patrick was different. Days stuck in a van with cheap roadside food had shown in his cheeks and stomach, in the roundness of his arms and thighs. Pete had never known it bothered him. Like his ribs, he hadn’t really thought about it. Bodies were bodies and Patrick’s was perfect. Soft and warm, a perfect pillow when the road was bumpy. He was two arms full of the slightest squish, short enough to tuck under his chin, nice-smelling boy and Pete loved him, had wanted to spend hours kissing his cheeks and belly.

Patrick was curved and mountains that were the best home Pete had ever known.

Patrick had hated himself.

Patrick had hated himself enough to almost kill himself and Pete hadn’t noticed until it was almost too late. He covered his eyes, beginning to feel his breath hitch. God, he was such an idiot. He had sensed something was off and had done nothing. He  _knew_ there had been something wrong with Patrick and he had brushed it off to the side because he thought Patrick could deal with it. He was such a fuck up.

Patrick was going to die and it was all his fault. Patrick hated himself and it was because Pete had ruined him. He should have done better he should have-

“Pete, open the door.”

Pete sat up and turned, pulling up at the lock. Kevin sighed and ruffled his hair with both hands. “They’re keeping Patrick overnight again,” he said, “but I don’t think anything bad really happened. Just scratched his throat. It’s probably his first relapse this time.”

Pete shifted and moved over so Kevin could sit down next to him. Something clicked and Pete felt like he’d been punched in the mouth. “What do you mean this time?”

Kevin closed the door and locked it. He took a deep breath. “Patrick’s been struggling with eating disorders since he was 12 years old. There were some scattered months, a year or so altogether where he didn’t-where he was almost okay.”

Pete felt like he was going to vomit. He thought of Patrick being just a little kid, making himself throw up and couldn’t force the picture of sunken eyes and cheeks from his mind.

“Then he went on tour,” Kevin said, “I told Mom she shouldn’t let him go. But she thought it would be good for him to get out of Glenview,” he paused, biting at his thumbnail, the only sound was Pete’s labored breathing, “and it was. He’d call and sound so happy. Just…I hadn’t heard him like that in years. But sometimes…sometimes he’d call and I’ve known Patrick since the day he was born, I know when he was relapsing. It got bad one day, really bad and suddenly I was 17 and watching my kid brother die all over again and I told him, Patrick come home and you know what he says? Like this is a fucking movie, like he was reading from a script he answered so fast, Kevin, I am home.”

Pete smiled slightly. That was Patrick for you, cliché and sentimental. “We’re family. They’re all I’ve got.”

“You were supposed to take care of him. You promised us you would keep him safe,” Kevin said and his voice was so sad, so tired that Pete could only nod along, replying quietly,

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, perhaps waiting for the other to spew something out, an idea maybe, a sudden epiphany that would undo eight years of loathing and sickness. Instead, Pete stared at the space between his shoes, smelling his own middle of the night, sleep sour breath before he said, “he saved my life.”

“I know,” Kevin said and they both knew what he didn’t say.

Pete snuck home in Kevin’s car, feeling like his bones had been replaced with cement as he drove farther and farther away from Patrick. He dragged himself onto the couch, curling into a ball around Hemmy. The dog took it with good grace, whining as he licked at Pete’s greasy hair. “Sorry for leaving you alone so long, buddy,” he said, “Daddy’s had some stuff to deal with lately. Patrick’s hurting really bad right now and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Hemmy wagged his tail, thumping against Pete’s calf, licking a sloppy stripe up Pete’s cheek and over his eye. Pete buried his face in his neck. “I don’t know if he’s going to be ok and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know anything.” Pete sighed and sat up, patting his dog’s sides. “Love you, buddy.” Hemmy barked and jumped off Pete’s lap, hurrying away down the hall.

Pete huffed and smiled slightly before sinking back into the couch. He knew he wasn’t going to be sleeping at all tonight.

Patrick stumbled out of the hospital at eight in the morning, groggy from whatever they had used to put him to sleep. His brother walked slowly behind him with the wheelchair, shooting him disapprovingly looks.

“No, Kevin,” he said, pulling at the strings of his hoodie.

“You’re going to fall over.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Get in the wheelchair.”

“No.”

“Patrick Vaughn Stump get in the fucking wheelchair.”

“Kevin, shut the hell up, you’re not mom.” There was no real heat behind the argument and Kevin took to sighing deeply as he folded up the chair.

“If she was here your ass would be grass.”

“Well, she’s not.”

Pete pulled up moments later, grinning through the unrolled window. “Hey baby how much per hour?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kevin snapped.

“Not you, ew, I’m talking about the cutie on the left.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick said, clambering into the front seat.

Pete leaned over, kissing him softly on the lips. “I love you,” he said and kissed him again.

“Fucking drive already,” Kevin said, “we’re going to get a ticket for loitering.”

Pete sighed against Patrick’s mouth before pulling away, resisting the urge to gun the engine as he made a  u-turn.

“That’s illegal.”

“No it isn’t.”

“We’re in front of a hospital,” Kevin said.

“And I didn’t even kill anyone.”

“Both of you shut up or I will throw myself out of this car,” Patrick said.

Pete snapped his mouth closed and shot Patrick a baleful look. “That’s not funny.”

“I don’t like listening to you two arguing constantly,” Patrick shot back.

“We weren’t arguing.”

“Yes, we were,” Kevin said.

Pete made a strangled noise in the back of his throat before reaching over to clutch one of Patrick’s hands as he drove. “I’ll be better, I promise, just please don’t say shit like that anymore.”

Patrick kissed Pete’s knuckles and nodded. “Ok, I promise I won’t threaten to jump out of moving vehicles if you and my brother promise to stop fighting.”

“Deal,” Pete said, “anything you want.”

Kevin gagged at the sappy tone before nodding. “I won’t argue with the eyeliner king anymore if he promises not to do stupid shit.”

“That’s Mr. eyeliner king,” Pete muttered. “Dick breath.”

“No, I’m pretty sure that last one goes to the man with the boyfriend.”

“I like his eyeliner,” Patrick said mildly.

Pete beamed. “Do you really?”

“Yup. It suits you.”

Pete shot Kevin a triumphant look, squeezing Patrick’s hand lightly. “Thank you.”

Kevin leaned over and turned on the radio, turning up the volume until their disgusting commentary was drowned out. Pete put up with it until Patrick’s home was in sight. He parked haphazardly and jumped out, running around to the passenger side. He caught Patrick as he was unbuckling and pulled him into a tight hug, kissing his face adoringly.

“I missed you,” he said.

Patrick grinned. “I missed you too.”

Pete gave him a last lingering kiss before pulling away, taking his hands and pulling him towards the door. “Is Kevin staying with us?”

“Kevin’s right here. Yes Kevin is.”

“I don’t very much care for Kevin.”

 “He’s my brother and I love him.”

Pete pouted for a moment. “Ok, fine. Nap?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll stay far away from you two,” Kevin said, turning on the television, “don’t worry.”

“And we’ll try really hard not to sully your virgin eyes,” Pete said solemnly as Patrick pushed him upstairs.

“I appreciate it!” Kevin called.

Patrick undressed slowly as Pete yanked off his jeans, staring at the wall. A bit later, Patrick slid under the covers, hesitantly wrapping his arms around Pete. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into his neck. “Pete I’m-”

Pete kissed the top of his head, pulled him close. “It’s ok, Pattycakes, it’s ok, you’re fine,” he hummed. “I love you and I’m not going  anywhere, I love you and I’m not going anywhere.”

Patrick sighed deeply, going limp as Pete began to kiss downwards. “I love you.”

This wasn’t about sex, Pete reminded himself as he kissed Patrick’s neck, this was about showing Patrick how loved he was. He peppered kisses over his shoulders and collarbone before switching sides, feeling Patrick begin to breath slower and deeper. When he pressed the final kiss at his chin, he was asleep.

Pete was content to stare at him for a bit, memorizing the sharp angles of his cheekbones, how he could see his spine from the nape of his neck when Patrick rolled onto his belly and imagined when he blinked, Patrick would be as he used to be.

Pete wasn’t magic and wishes weren’t real and when he opened his eyes everything was as it was.

He kissed Patrick once more, for luck and decided sleep sounded pretty good just as the door opened.

Kevin was shaking and his expression was pale and pinched. He made a motion for Pete to follow. “I’m busy,” Pete said and burrowed under the comforter.

Kevin took a step into the room and motioned again, mouth twisting into a snarl. Pete sighed and went.

“What,” he said irritably, “I know you don’t like me dating your brother but we were just hugging. That’s it. I'm not going to try and fuck him while he's recovering.”

“I don’t care,” Kevin said coldly, “and don't ever say fuck and my brother in the same sentence if you want to keep all your shitty teeth. I want you to see this.” He unpaused the television and skipped back a bit.

Pete didn’t recognize the show but he did recognize the smug, sly look on the reporter’s face as he purred, “lead singer of Fall Out Boy was recognized at a Chicago hospital very late last night and disappearing early this morning in a suspicious vehicle. We have not been able to confirm what he was in for but we can certainly guess. Maybe it has something to do with the singer’s infamous blackout at the band’s latest Warped appearance. Sources say the bands have indeed been pulled from the tour and-”

Pete ripped the remote from his hands and smashed the power button. The click of the TV echoed in his mind as he ground his teeth, feeling rage bubble in his throat. How  _fucking dare they. How dare they imply anything those idiotic motherfuckers don’t know-_

“Pete,” Kevin said sharply, “calm down.”

“I’m going to kill them,” Pete hissed. “I am going to kill them how dare they! Suspicious vehicle? Infamous blackout? If Patrick finds out any of this bullshit it’s going to fucking ruin him. He can’t deal with shit like this Kevin, not the way he is now.”

Kevin nodded his agreement. “It’ll die down eventually,” he said, “they’ll have to find something else to focus on soon. Especially if we don’t make any comments and keep from responding. The most important thing is that Patrick doesn’t find anything out.”

“Right,” Pete said, “keep Patrick safe. Keep Patrick out of the limelight. I can do that. But he’s smart. He’s going to figure it out. You’ve never had to deal with the paparazzi, man, they’re sharks and they smell blood, they’re not going to stop until they’ve drained this story of everything.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Kevin said, “we have to.”


	10. For now, Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter took so long and I'm sorry for how short it is. I've got a bad case of writer's block. I'll post this now and as always watch out for chapter edits. This story is literally being rewritten as it's being written. See you guys later, and sooner hopefully!

Pete crawled back into bed with Patrick. It was all he could think to do. He curled under their comforter and wrapped himself around him like a coil. Patrick snuffled in his sleep and breathed out heavily against Pete’s neck, a deep sigh that Pete imagined sounded sad, even in his sleep. He kissed the wrinkles set firmly in Patrick’s forehead and yanked the covers up over their heads.

It was warm and pretty soon they’d both start sweating but it helped ease the ache of _too close_ and _not close enough_ that always hammered hard in Pete’s chest when he was around Patrick. The kick drum of his heart slowed and eased and Pete took a deep breath, the vice grip in his chest loosening. He breathed out, feeling his own breath fog warm and sour in his face and kissed Patrick again on his slack jaw because he could, he could kiss him whenever he wanted and even if he lived for another hundred years he’d never stop being astonished, never stop feeling the rush when he touched him.

He waited for another few moments until Patrick’s cheeks were flushed and sweat started beading on their temples before he yanked dow the blanket, the cool air a welcome relief. The curtains were drawn and the door was closed. Pete felt just a twinge of affection for Kevin, pain in the ass he truly is, before pushing it away. Pete dropped his head against Patrick's chest, the other's heart beating soundly against his cheek. It was the most comfortable he'd been in weeks and he couldn't bring himself to fall asleep.

Sleep had never come easy and he honestly didn’t know if it would ever come again. He was terrified, seeing flashes of bright red on a white towel every time he yawned and the comfortable, steady beat stuttering each time he blinked. “Patrick,” he whispered, sitting up, “Patrick, wake up.”

Patrick groaned unhappily and rolled over, burying his face in a plush pillow, peeking out from the side to glare at him. “What?” he demanded unhappily.

“I need you to sing to me,” Pete said and he must look worse than he thought because Patrick didn't argue, just sighed deeply and turned onto his back, holding out his arms. 

Pete shoved himself into the space, feeling tears prick the corners of the eyes as Patrick held him tightly, sweaty and flushed and warm and _alive_. “Any requests?” he asked and then cleared his throat.

“No,” Pete said, needing _closer_ as he nosed at Patrick’s pulse, the tension draining from his body. “Anything, sing anything.”

“Alright,” Patrick said and cleared his throat, singing a single note that broke in the middle and sent tingles down Pete’s spine. “Fuck,” he muttered and began again.

It was everything Pete needed to hear, Patrick low and clear in his ears, swiping unhappy thoughts to make room for his voice. Pete relaxed.  He melted against Patrick, pressing kisses on his throat, loving the vibrations under his lips.

God, he was so fucking exhausted.

Patrick pet Pete’s hair and it probably felt disgusting with at least three days’ worth of grease and sweat caked in but he soldiered through. Pete really appreciated that about him. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d return the favor. Instead, he nosed at Patrick’s jaw, trying to convey how much he loved him silently and with as little movement as possible.

“Love you,” Patrick said when the song was finished.

Pete licked his dry lips and nodded, “Me too.”

“Thanks,” He continued, “For everything. For making me sing, for sticking around. I know it hasn’t been easy and I just-thanks, Pete.”

“I’m always going to be here, Pattycakes, even when we’re old and gross and wrinkly and we can sit on your porch together and headbang to the punk rock hooligans practicing in the garage across the street. It’s gonna be great, just you wait and see.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and nudged him lightly with his knee. “You’re an idiot.”

“Patrick that was hurtful,” Pete said, grinning as he wrapped his arms around Patrick’s neck,  rolling on top of him, careful not to press too much of his weight down on the other man.

“Oh shut up, you big baby,” Patrick said, smiling softly at him.  “You know I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, I guess,” He mumbled, still grinning as he rubbed his nose against Patrick cheek.

“What are you doing?”

“Eskimo kisses.”

“I’m also positive that’s not how they work, Pete.” But Patrick was smiling so Pete continued. He was warm and mostly angles, sticking Pete in his hips and chest when he shifted the wrong way and feeling the rise and fall of his chest against his, he was the most beautiful thing that had ever existed.

“I love you,” Pete said, because he could and if he didn’t, he thought he might explode. “I love you more than anything, Patrick, Patrick, I love you.”

Patrick laughed, sweet and breathless and clung to him, a burr in his side, his hips knives against Pete's own slightly concave stomach. “I love you too Pete, more than you’ll ever know.”

“I do know,” he said, “I know because I love you most.”

“Is it a competition?” Patrick asked wryly, carding his hands through Pete’s hair.

“No, but if it was I’d win.”

“If you wanna think that, go ahead.”

“I would,” he said, “Seriously, go back with me to visit my parents one day and we can read all the shitty lyrics I wrote about you as a stupid horny teenager.”

“Sounds like fun,” Patrick said and he honestly sounded as if he meant it.

“Oh, they were fucking awful, I knew that when I wrote them. I think at one point I rhymed strawberry blonde with nothing wrong.”

“I’m sure they’re fine.”

“They suck, they’re sad and desperate and stupid because I was a sad and desperate and stupid person back then.”

“You were never any of those things.”

“I was and I’m still stupid over you, just not sad or desperate.”

“Well I’m glad for that at least, I don’t want you to ever feel like that again.”

“It’s hard to feel bad about myself when you’re always there to kick my ass into shape,” Pete said, “so if we're trading these, thanks for that. I really, really don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“You’re welcome,” Patrick said, “and you’d be just fine. You’re stronger than you think you are.”

“Still, I’d rather be strong with you, Stump. You and me together forever. We can get matching best friend necklaces.”

“Sounds like a plan.”


	11. Hemingway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright, man, I know you’re not one to call just to catch up. What’s going on?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not be the last chapter, thanks for sticking by me if it is!

Pete may or may not have been up all night, trying to find a pair of friendship necklaces he liked for him and Patrick. He had almost picked a pair shaped like ice cream cones before deciding that they needed to come in a set of four, to include Joe and Andy. The assholes would probably never wear them, but he knew them well enough to know they’d appreciate the gesture.

He tapped softly and almost silently on his keyboard, not wanting to wake up Patrick who still slept peacefully beside him. The younger man huffed again, shifting slightly on his belly. A quick glance at the clock told Pete that it was almost one in the afternoon. Kevin would be long gone now and Patrick would probably sleep for another half hour. Enough time, he thought and continued to browse. The final decision was between a group of music notes or _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle_ heads. The music notes were a bit more sentimental but the turtles would probably make Patrick laugh.

Pete grinned as he added them to his cart and began to tap in his address and specifications. Patrick groaned again and rolled over, attaching himself to Pete’s side. He pet his hair softly, brushing it off his face. “Go back to bed, Blue,” he said, “you’ve had a long day.”

“Don’t quote _Old School_ at me,” Patrick grunted, burying his face in the junction between Pete’s hip and stomach.

“Just did,” Pete teased and glanced at the nightstand as his phone began to ring. “Fuck, I gotta take that, it’s Andy.”

Patrick sighed and nodded, scooting away. “M’kay, take it in the other room, I’m gonna go back to bed.”

“You never even left the bed,” he laughed as he closed his laptop and unplugged it, standing up. He answered the call on the last ring, closing the bedroom door  behind him after stepping aside to let Hemmy trot inside so Patrick would have a little company. “Hurley, what is it? Some of us decent party folks are trying to sleep.”

“Patrick still in bed?”

“Have you ever known the guy to wake up before three in the afternoon?” Andy laughed for a moment and Pete laughed with him, it was a welcome reprieve from the serious tone in his voice. “Alright, man, I know you’re not one to call just to catch up. What’s going on?” He laid down on the couch and opened his laptop.

“Joe and I were talking about what we could do about the pictures of Patrick leaving the hospital, nothing big like lawyers but just something to buy Patrick a bit more time to get better in peace or just to throw them off the trail completely. FBR was even talking about suing the reporter because that same magazine has been following us for so long we could probably get them on stalking charges.”

“Uh-huh,” Pete said, leaning his head back onto the arm of the couch, staring at the ceiling. “So, I’m guessing by the way you’re phrasing it that’s not what we’re going to end up doing, is it?”

“We actually did manage to get more time, or at least a cover story, thanks to Gabe. He and Cobra let out a statement yesterday saying that he has chronic stomach ulcers or something and his pals in Fall Out Boy were visiting him. The hospital of course can’t say shit because of patient confidentiality but that’s what we’ve got. It doesn’t account for Patrick passing out but it’s something else for people to talk about.”

“So, what are you saying, we owe Gabe big time?” Pete asked, a bit bitter.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Pete, the dude’s lying to half the country to get the pressure off us. I know you didn’t, don’t, like whatever the fuck was going on between him and Patrick but he and everyone in Cobra are some of our best friends and they are doing us a huge fucking favor right now. You don’t like it, I get that, Joe gets that, half of Warped gets that, but you’ve got to get right the fuck over it because you’re acting like a kid.”

“I know.” Pete said finally. “Trust me, I know.”

“He loves Patrick just as much as you do,” Andy said softly, “poor guy’s probably hurting enough with you two being practically engaged so just…just cut the kid some slack.”

“I’ll try, dude, I’m gonna try really fucking hard,” swore Pete, “it’s just, fuck, I was such a damn asshole. To both of them and I don’t know how to make it better.”

“Calm down, that’s what you can do first, take a deep breath and remember that in the end, Patrick chose you. Don’t try and rub it in, no matter how much you must want to and for the love of whatever fucking vengeful God is out there don’t make Patrick regret it, okay?  I know you, Pete, and I know you’re a better guy than this.”

“I’m gonna try to be,” he said. “I know Saporta has me beat in the bigger man Olympics but I’m going to try and work on the being not as huge of an asshole as I have been. How’s that?”

“Sounds good,” Andy said, “baby steps.”

Pete laughed slightly. “While I have you, I’m buying us all friendship necklaces.”

“Really? What are we, fourth grade girls?”

“These are totally cool though, they’re shaped like fucking _Ninja Turtles_.”

“Oh, well, when you put it like that.”

“I’m definitely Mikey, and Patrick’s Donatello, you’re-”

“I swear if the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘totally Raphael’ I’m cancelling our friendship because in all of these years together you have learned _nothing.”_

Pete snorted with laughter. “Fine, fine, I guess Joe being Leo makes sense, they’re both the most boring. Not to mention their names even sort of rhyme.”

“I’m fucking thirty years old and I’m having a damn discussion about fucking _Ninja Turtles.”_

_“Ninja Turtle_ friendship necklaces with all our names inscribed in the back.”

“You know, when most men our age talk about getting someone else jewelry it’s usually because they’re thinking about getting married.”

“Well, actually, there’s that too,” said Pete, a bit nervously.”

“Pete Lewis  Kingston Wentz the third, first of all, I am not a goddamn sister wife, this is not going to be some weird punk rock gangbang, no matter how much scandal we could cause-”

“But you love scandal!”

“Shut up. Second of all, you are not proposing to Patrick with cartoon character heads.”

“Obviously not, I just thought they could be like a band thing. Or a best man thing.”

“Are you asking me to be your best man?”

“Yup, Patrick has had dibs on Joe ever since that really weird night in Lincoln a few stops back.”

“Oh man, I remember that,” Andy laughed, “when they both got baked and watched three seasons of _Say Yes to The Dress_ in a single night?”

“That’s the one,” Pete said. “So, you in?”

“Yes, Pete, I am in, fully and completely. I am going to best man the fuck out of the proverbial train wreck that is going to be your wedding.”

“I think train wreck is a little harsh. I mean, it’s a wedding, I go up there, I say the magic words, wham, bam, I get half of Patrick’s shit.”

“Speaking of the lucky bride, have you actually brought any of this up with Patrick? Have you even mentioned marriage? You haven’t even been dating that long.”

“Well, no, but we have been together for years, basically.”

“Pete, seriously? Just go ask the kid to marry you already.”

“Yes, Mother. Patrick! Up and at ‘em, starshine! I have something to ask!”

There was a loud, unhappy groan from the upstairs. “Not like that,” Andy hissed, “he’s going to fucking kill you, damn it, Pete, for once in your life, be romantic!”

“Trust me, Patrick’s going to like this a lot better. Patrick! Downstairs, on the double!”

There was another, louder groan and the sound of footsteps down the hall. Patrick appeared at the top of the stairs, looking angry and rumpled as he leaned slightly against Hemmy. “What?” he asked angrily, beginning to step down. “I was asleep, Pete.”

“Romantic!” Andy hissed again. Pete hung up. Not that he didn’t love Andy to death but this was a private moment and he didn’t want anyone else there to make Patrick feel pressured.

(Or on the possibility Patrick says no, be there to witness the awkward moment afterwards)

“I love you.”

Patrick’s face scrunched up slightly and he sat down on the last step, wrapping his arms around the dog’s neck. “I love you too, Pete.”

Pete sat up and turned on the couch so he could look at Patrick better. “We should get married and have Joe and Andy be our maids of honor and Gabe can even be our priest if you want, because let’s be honest we’re way more into creepy snake based drug cults than we are normal religions and before you completely reject me think of the scandal, Patrick, the scandal, you know how much it would hurt Andy to know that he wouldn’t get a chance to wear a dress and piss off conservatives not to  mention think about how much it would also mean to Gabe, he’s been wanting to induct us to the Church of The Cobra since, like, 2001, so what do you say?”

Patrick blinked and leaned back slightly, absorbing the information. It was a true testament to how long he had known Pete that it only took him about two seconds before he was nodding. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright,” Patrick agreed, “I’ll marry you, but I sort of promised Vicky she’d get to be my maid of honor so Andy and Joe are going to have to settle for best men. My brother won’t mind being a groomsman.”

“That actually works out well, we can have a best man and maid of honor, so my sister doesn’t feel left out. Can Hemmy be the ring bearer?”

“No, Hemmy can’t be the ring bearer, he’d probably wander off and piss on somebody’s shoes,” Patrick said, affectionately scratching the top of the dog’s head. Hemmy panted happily, completely unaware of the insult to his character.

“Hey, he’s housetrained.”

“No, Pete,” Patrick said. “Hemmy can be there but no way is he the ring bearer.”

“Fine,” he said, “I’m just glad you said yes.”

Patrick smiled at him tiredly and rubbed his eyes. “Pete, you know when I say yes, I don’t mean we’re getting married right now, or even a few months from now. I want to be better, completely better. I want to be able to eat cake and dance and have fun at my wedding. I can’t do that now and I don’t want to ruin it by rushing.”

“I know, Rick,” Pete hopped over the couch and sat on the floor next to him, resting his head on Patrick’s knee. He kissed the material of faded Batman pajama bottoms. “We’re going to take this slow and we’re going to do it right. I just wanted you to know that I’m ready when you’re ready.” Hemmy licked his forehead and Patrick laughed.

“I know, Pete.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”


End file.
